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THE FULLBACK 



















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It was a clean catch. 




The Fullback 


BY 

LAWRENCE PERRY 


ILLUSTRATED 


CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
NEW YORK :::::::::: 1916 



Copyright, igi6, by 
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 


Published October, 1916 



OCT 25 I9IS 


©Cl,A446077 


TO MY SON 


GLENTWORTH PERRY 

THIS BOOK 


IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 



PREFACE 


In writing this book the author had no one 
university in mind. Many colleges and univer- 
sities are merged in a composite picture. In this 
medley the geographical position of one univer- 
sity has been employed, the social system of 
another, and the customs of several. As for 
Tom Kerry, he was a real boy of the author’s 
acquaintance. 


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CONTENTS 


CHAPTER page 

I. Kerry of Annandale High ... i 
11 . Annandale versus Pulver .... i6 

III. A Bid from Three Colleges . • . 37 

IV. The Man-Hunt 58 

V. Tom’s Curves Impress a Minor- 

League Manager 78 

VI. Five Innings Against Columbus . . 95 

VII. Tom and His Father 114 

VIII. Haledon University 130 

IX. Tom Strikes Out the Sophomores . 15 1 

X. Out for the Varsity Eleven . . . 173 

XL The Opening Game 192 

XII. Ineligible 208 

XIII. Tom Departs from Haledon ... 223 

XIV. The Day of the Game 246 

XV. Haledon versus Shelburne .... 259 

XVI. The Second Half 274 


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ILLUSTRATIONS 


It was a clean catch Frontispiece '/ 

FACING PAGE 


Louise Middleton was in the chrysanthemum bed . . 44 

“ I certainly thank you, Mr. Saunders ” no 

“ Some driv — ” The voice of the man behind was . 

borne away on the wind 270 ^ 























THE FULLBACK 


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THE FULLBACK 


CHAPTER I 

Kerry of Annandale High 

W ELL, Tom, the rest of the day is yours.” 

Timothy Kerry looked at the clock 
lazily ticking above a pile of dusty five and ten 
cent novels and then, reaching upward to a shelf, 
took down a package of tobacco and his pipe. 
This he slowly filled and lighted, his face mean- 
while turned toward his son, who was preparing 
to leave the store. In his blue eyes was a soft 
twinkle; in his face an expression of tenderness 
that had first come when Tom Kerry lay in his 
mother’s arms, a babe. From that time to this 
it had never been missing when Timothy Kerry 
looked upon his boy. 

Now, Tom was twice as big as his father. His 
limbs were long, muscular, and lithe; they came 
together at the ankles in the slightest sort of a 
bow. Already there was an impressive depth of 
chest and breadth of shoulder. And as his body 
I 


The Fullback 


was suggestive of physical power, so in his face 
were to be read hints of character and strong 
personality, which, if adequately developed, were 
certainly destined to carry him far beyond the 
confines of his father’s little news-depot. His 
features were chiselled in square lines. His eyes 
were blue like his father’s, the brows broad and 
rather heavy; his blond hair, crinkling at the 
sides, completed an impression which one of his 
teachers had appositely defined when she remarked 
to the principal: 

‘‘He makes me think of some immature Greek 
god.;’ 

His poise was resilient, alert, and yet withal 
there was a patent suggestion of dignity. He was 
not yet nineteen, but at the corners of his eyes 
were a few faint lines which betokened a well- 
developed sense of quiet humor. His father had 
these lines. 

He was not a great talker — was, in fact, of the 
thinking type of boy — but when he did speak it 
was crisply, distinctly, and to the point. 

“Father,” he said, tossing his head in a manner 
which always characterized his serious moods, 
“you’ve been saying all season you were going to 
get some one to take charge of the store some 
Saturday and come over and see the team play. 

2 


Kerry of Annandale High 

Now we’ve got a good game to-day; the Pulver 
School eleven is coming over ” 

“Tom/' was the reply, “this is Saturday — my 
busy day, the worst day in the week to get 
away " 

“I know," rejoined Tom, “and that's just why 
I hate to go off and play football, thinking of 
you " 

“Go away, you young towhead!" interrupted 
the father. “The time to enjoy yourself is when 
you're young; I had my day, never fear. Go on 
now and get away with you. Go home and have 
your lunch, lie down for an hour, and then go on 
over to the field. I may be able to be there for 
fifteen minutes or so." He seized a chair, drawing 
it toward the front of the store. “Just now I'm 
going to have my pipe out — and I don't want to 
be bothered." 

Tom hesitated, smiling. Then, tapping his 
father gently on the back, he went out of the store 
and strode away up the street. 

“Tom!" A choking thrill rose in the little 
man's throat. He paced the floor for a few min- 
utes, and then, with copious clouds issuing from 
his pipe, he seized his chair, carried it into the 
sunlight in front of the store, and sat down. 
Always after his return from luncheon he did 
3 


The Fullback 


this, except in the hot and cold months and in in- 
clement weather. Long ago the habit had fixed 
itself among the traditional functions of village life. 

Across the “square,’’ with its old white fence, 
its faded grass, and bordering elms and maples, 
children were playing among the dead leaves in 
front of the old “First Church,” and at each 
breath of wind more leaves fell — purple, crimson, 
yellow, and brown; all were bathed in mellow gold. 

It was all very beautiful to Timothy Kerry. 
There was a vague tradition in the village that he 
had once been a race-horse trainer. If that were 
true, he had lived it down. He had a kindly 
nature and a kindly face — seamed, drawn, and 
wrinkled. Yes, there had been more strenuous 
days for Timothy Kerry — but they were far away. 
He was content they should be. His life held 
now no disagreeable philosophy. Such problems 
as he had once known had long been solved or 
cast into the limbo of things insoluble. He loved 
the routine he had hit upon — the noonday and 
evening pipe, the gossip of the villagers, all the 
minor happenings of communal existence. He 
never talked much, but he listened well, puffing 
contemplative clouds from his pipe the while, 
his blue eyes twinkling. 

Tom and he lived in a little cottage on the out- 

4 


Kerry of Annandale High 

skirts of the community, and here, sitting upon 
the veranda, they could gaze through the vines 
which the wife and mother had planted to the 
little hillside cemetery where she now lay. 

Presently, glancing up and down the street 
half-guiltily, Kerry took from his pocket a clip- 
ping from a Blainesville newspaper, which con- 
tained a cut of a rangy, blond-haired youngster 
in football garb. He had read the accompanying 
paragraph a score of times, but there was all the 
old surging of blood as the salient sentences, ‘‘one 
of the most promising secondary-school backs in 
Ohio,” “a boy for whom half a dozen univer- 
sities are gunning,” passed under his eyes. He 
could have repeated them all by heart, but it was 
so much more satisfactory to read them. 

Returning the clipping to his pocket, he was 
about to relight his pipe when a great touring-car 
purred up to the curb and stopped in front of 
Kerry’s store. Two men alighted, one of them 
very stocky and broad-shouldered, with pro- 
nounced suggestion of executive authority in his 
face and bearing; the other a big, hulking fel- 
low with shoulders slightly stooped and the face 
of a scholar. They were Enoch Chase and his 
friend Warburton. Both of them advanced to 
Timothy Kerry, who looked up inquiringly. 

5 


The Fullback 


^‘This is Mr. Kerry, isn’t it?” asked Chase, 
glancing at the sign over the door. ‘‘I am Mr. 
Chase” — he abstracted a card from his case and 
handed it to the man, ‘‘and this is my friend, Mr. 
Warburton. Both of us played football at 
Haledon — in the East; perhaps you’ve heard of 
the college ” 

“Oh, yes, Mr. Chase,” smiled Kerry, arising. 
“I’ve heard of Haledon and I’ve heard of you; 
at least I used to read about you and Mr. War- 
burton. You see, when I lived in New York, 
years ago, I used to go to Manhattan Field to all 
the football games. Of course,” he added, “that’s 
ahead of your time, but I always kept reading 
about the teams and the games.” 

“I see.” Chase nodded, and then, being by 
nature blunt, he came directly to the point. 
“I understand you have a boy in the high school 
who is playing great football ” 

“I suppose you read about him in the Blaines- 
ville paper,” interrupted Kerry, producing his 
clipping with some show of diffidence. Chase 
glanced over it, handing it on to his friend and 
shaking his head. 

“No, I’m afraid I don’t follow football as closely 
as I should like to. I heard of your boy in an- 
other way. So we thought we’d motor out here 
6 


Kerry of Annandale High 

and see him in action. He will be graduated from 
the high school next June, won’t he Have you 
any idea of sending him to college?” 

Kerry looked at the speaker a moment, blink- 
ing. 

“I had that idea,” he began. ‘‘Mother and I 
had saved money for it from the time he was 
born. But she, mother, got sick, and before — 
before she died, we had spent about all of it.” 

“Yes.” Chase nodded. “This clipping speaks 
of several universities bidding for Tom’s ser- 
vices. Is that true ?” 

“Well,” grinned Kerry, “it was news to me, 
and to Tom, until yesterday, when two men came 
in town, one from Moline University — that’s a 
bit farther west — and one from Cokedale College, 
which is in Pennsylvania somewhere, I think.” 
Kerry laughed. “They met in the store here and 
they didn’t seem glad to see each other at all.” 

“Where are they now?” asked Warburton. 

“They’re in the hotel,” replied Kerry, “and 
they’re going out to the game this afternoon — 
the boys play the Pulver Military Institute team.” 

“Phew!” Warburton whistled. “That Moline 
chap is ‘Pal’ Adams ” 

“Adams is the name,” interjected Kerry. 

“Adams!” Chase’s brows wrinkled. “I re- 

7 


The Fullback 


member him as the dirtiest football player I ever 
stacked up against. Let’s see; when I last heard 
of him he was coaching the Pendleton eleven.” 

‘‘Even Pendleton couldn’t stand him long,” 
said Warburton. “He lost that college her two 
best games of the season — ^with Aurora, and Mason 
and Dixon. Then he went to Moline, whose team, 
according to Adams’s boast, costs twenty-five 
thousand a year.” 

“Who’s the Cokedale man.?” asked Chase. 

“His name is Wiley,” returned Kerry. 

“And his nature is wily,” chuckled Warbur- 
ton. “That’s ‘Bud’ Wiley, Enoch; of our uni- 
versity, I’m sorry to say. He was a back there 
about six years ago ” 

“Oh, I know him,” rejoined Chase. “Now, 
Mr. Kerry, look here; this may all sound like a 
game of knocking to you. But it isn’t. I’ll be 
frank; after we see your boy play this afternoon 
we may want him to come to Haledon University 
— -if he’s going anywhere. But we want him to 
come only under the proper conditions, under 
conditions that will be honorable for your boy 
and for our college. That is the only sort Haledon 
wants. Understand?” 

“I think I do, sir,” returned Kerry. 

“Good enough. Now, I want you to let Adams 
8 


Kerry of Annandale High 

and Wiley talk to you after the game, and then — 
I suppose you can’t leave your store until late in 
the evening, and that until that time you’ll be 
too busy to give us your undivided attention.” 

“That is true, sir,” smiled Kerry. 

“Very well. What time do you usually close 
up.?” 

“Never later than ten o’clock,” said Kerry. 

“Then, at that hour we can see you here 
and be undisturbed — see you and your son, I 
mean .? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“All right.” Chase turned away. “We’ll see 
this game, and then Mr. Warburton and I will 
drive out to a road-house where we had luncheon, 
and shortly after ten o’clock we’ll return here — 
and we’ll find you and the boy waiting?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Thank you very much.” Chase came back 
and shook the man’s hand, and after Warbur- 
ton had done the same they entered the motor- 
car. “Drive around the town for a while,” 
Chase said to the chauffeur; then he leaned back 
in the tonneau seat. 

“Warry,” he said, “I had my doubts about 
this boy until I saw the father. He’s a wistful 
sort of a chap, with only one thing in his life — his 
9 


The Fullback 


son. Vm almost afraid to see him play foot- 
ball; because he’s probably a fair sort of a rube 
player with no future so far as a big university 
team is concerned. Adams and Wiley will size 
him up in a flash and break the old man’s heart, 
and then — did you see his face lighten when I 
mentioned Haledon — and then we’ll have to 
break further sad news. Can’t you see the look 
that will come into those blue eyes of his when 
we — hang it all, Warry, I’m too busy a man to be 
roaming around capping for Haledon against a 
couple of crooks who ought to be on a chain-gang, 
and worrying about hurting a fond father by 
telling him his son can’t play on a big college 
team.” 

Now, the fact is, that Enoch Chase need not 
have worried one bit on this score, as he was 
destined soon to learn. 

Enoch Chase had been out of college a few 
months over ten years. He was now the secre- 
tary and treasurer of the Western Aluminium 
Products Company, at Columbus, and was a very 
busy and a very efficient young man. He and 
Warburton, his classmate, had played at half- 
back and tackle, respectively, upon a football 
eleven which had gained for Haledon University 
about all the gridiron laurels that one seat of 


10 


Kerry of Annandale High 

learning could well digest. But after their gradu- 
ation, as is the case with most good football 
players, the two had left the game to under- 
graduates, and had settled down earnestly to 
making careers for themselves. Warburton, who 
had taken the scientific course at the university, 
had been summoned west by Chase and placed 
in charge of the technical department of the 
Aluminium Company, where he had established 
himself as invaluable. 

The previous day Chase had received an urgent 
letter from a classmate in New York requesting 
him to run out to Annandale and look over a young 
high-school fullback named Kerry, of whom great 
things had been predicted. 

‘‘Jiggs Holcomb, who is travelling for the Har- 
vester people,’’ ran the letter, “saw the chap 
play at Annandale last September, and he says 
he’s a wonder. I know you’re a busy man — you 
must be, you and Warry, to have missed our 
decennial reunion last June — but you owe it to 
Haledon to run out there and shunt this kid to 
Haledon — if he’s going to college. The future 
promises a shortage of good backs at the uni- 
versity and Baliol and Shelburne (Haledon’s time- 
honored rivals in all sports) appear to be getting 
about all the good Western boys that the Middle 

II 


The Fullback 


Western colleges miss. Now, please, like a good 
chap, do this little job for us.’’ 

Chase, his desk piled with papers, had growled 
that he would see Spike McClure — the writer of 
the letter — hanged before he would motor fifty 
miles to kowtow to a cub fullback. But War- 
burton, more with the idea of inducing his over- 
worked friend to spend a day in the open than 
anything else, had urged him to make the trip. 

“The trouble with you, Enoch,” he said, when 
all other arguments had failed, “is that you are 
not a good Haledon man ” 

“What’s that!” Chase had shouted, glaring 
over the top of his desk. “How much money do 
you think I send to Haledon every year?” 

“It isn’t money,” Warburton had persisted. 
“It’s spirit. Here you are working yourself to 
death, with no thought of anything but business. 
Your hair is getting thin and you’re overweight. 
A little dose of Haledon spirit once in a while 
would keep you young — if you want to put it on 
a purely selfish basis. Haledon needs something 
else besides money.” 

“Selfish 1” Chase had scowled, and then, swing- 
ing around in his chair, had nodded his head vigor- 
ously. “Spirit all gone, eh 1 Well, we’ll see. What 
time can you start to-morrow?” 


12 


Kerry of Annandale High 

Seven o’clock,” had come the prompt reply. 
And seven o’clock it had been. Now they were 
drifting about the little village of Annandale 
waiting for the beginning of a game of football 
between two secondary-school elevens of which 
until yesterday they had never heard. 

Apparently Annandale was very proud of its 
eleven, for within the hour the streets leading to 
the athletic field in back of a comely brick school 
building were alive with villagers. And farmers 
from the outlying districts were coming into town 
in their dusty motor-cars of every make and vin- 
tage and in family carryalls, which were laden 
with boys and girls dressed as though for a holi- 
day, and carrying blue banners bearing, in white 
letters, the name Annandale. 

“Seems to be plenty of enthusiasm,” grunted 
Chase as the car came to a stop at a point along 
the road directly opposite the centre of the grid- 
iron. “I guess that’s the Pulver crowd now,” he 
added, jerking his shoulder toward a large open 
motor-truck whose occupants made a vivid pic- 
ture in their red sweaters and football togs, and 
in the natty blue uniforms worn by those who had 
accompanied the team to cheer it on to victory. 

The truck stopped directly behind Chase’s 
automobile and was instantly the centre of a 

13 


The Fullback 


curious group of Annandale youngsters, who ap- 
peared tremendously impressed not alone by the 
completeness of Pulver’s football equipment but 
by the bright uniforms and soldierly bearing of 
the team’s supporters. 

“They’re snappy,” said Chase, regarding the 
team with interest. “They act as though they 
took themselves very seriously. Look at them 
now, bunched about their coach — it’s the real 
stuff, Warry. Gee, I’m old ! It seems a hundred 
years since I rolled into a town as a member of a 
prep-school team.” 

Warburton didn’t reply. In his face was a 
strange, wistful expression, as though he knew all 
the emotions that were thrilling the minds of 
these young athletes — as though he were yearning 
to share in them, to live once more an experience 
which never again would be his. Chase caught 
the mood, and down his arms and along his legs 
certain muscles began to tingle, and his jaws set 
until they bulged at the corners. He leaned out 
of the car and addressed a player who stood 
near by. 

“Would you mind letting me see that ball a 
moment The boy smiled and tossed it into the 
tonneau. Chase caught it deftly and sat fondling 
it, smiling vacantly at his friend. 

14 


Kerry of Annandale High 

‘‘Isn’t it beautiful, Warry ! Isn’t it wonderful ! 
George, I’d like to kick it from here to Haledon ! 
Here — ” He tossed it back to the player with a 
sigh. “Such things are not for old men — they’re 
too exciting, might cause a bursted blood ves- 
sel ” 

“Oh, shut up,” growled Warburton. “You 
make me tired with your senile assumptions. 
I — ” He paused as the eleven scampered out on 
the field and lined up near the forty-yard line, 
“There they go. Say, Chase, look at that diagonal 
formation of the backs. That team knows foot- 
ball ” 

Chase watched with sparkling eyes as the quarter 
stepped hastily aside and the ball went on a direct 
pass to the back farthest from the line, the whole 
team then swinging into a dash around the end. 

“You bet it does,” he murmured. “I wonder 
where they pick it all up ? Warry,” he added, 
“the score will be fifty or so to nothing, and our 
fullback wonder will be lost in the shuffle. Here 
comes Annandale now, and they’re a scraggy 
bunch.” 


15 


CHAPTER II 


Annandale versus Pulver 

ELL/’ replied Warburton, they’re not 



exactly scraggy; they’re ill-assorted, as 


with most country high-school teams. There’s 
our man, Kerry, I guess; the rangy blond chap 
over there with the blue sweater.” 

‘‘Sure,” said Chase, “no doubt about that. 
He’s a well-set-up boy — reminds me something of 
Blondy Gray, the Baliol back. Oh, say, there are 
our two friends at last — Adams and Wiley. See 
them Now they’re coming up to Kerry.” 

“Yes, I see them,” was the sour response. 
“They act as though they already had a mortgage 
on him. We ought to put this thing through, 
Enoch, and butt in. I hate to see kidnapping 
going on right under my eyes.” Warburton arose 
in his seat. “Come on; let’s go down and intro- 
duce ourselves.” 

“You sit down and behave yourself, Warry.” 
Chase put out a restraining hand. “We’ll do this 
thing decently and in order, if at all. Besides I 
don’t want Wiley and Adams to know who we 


are. 


i6 


Annandale versus Pulver 


“They’re being very officious,” Warburton 
went on, settling back into the tonneau. ‘‘Adams 
is pointing out the weakness of Pulver’s fake kick 
formation ’’ 

“I should think Kerry could see it for himself,’’ 
returned Chase. “Now Annandale is going out 
to run through signals. Look at ’em — fifty to 
nothing, did I say It’ll be a hundred to nothing ! 
That line charges like a set of relay racers — one 
man at a time. . . . Kerry takes the ball. 
Good wood ! Did you ever see a big man run so 
low.? Well,” Chase leaned forward in his seat 
and lighted a cigarette, “come on. I’m ready for 
the game.” 

Adams and Wiley had apparently been chosen 
as umpire and referee, for they had moved onto 
the field and were conferring with the two cap- 
tains, of which Tom Kerry was one. The Pulver 
leader struck Chase and Warburton as somewhat 
supercilious in his demeanor toward the Annan- 
dale player. He shook Tom Kerry’s hand in a 
manner indicating extreme boredom and neglected 
to return either the welcoming smile or the word of 
greeting. Chase, a keen student of human nature, 
saw Kerry stiffen, saw his face grow stern. When 
finally it was necessary for the Pulver boy to ad- 
dress the rival captain concerning a point brought 

17 


The Fullback 


up by the officials, Chase noted that Kerry tacitly 
avoided the visitor and addressed his reply ex- 
clusively to the referee. 

‘‘He’s high strung and sensitive,” was Chase’s 
mental comment, adding aloud that to his way of 
thinking Tom Kerry was one of those wonderful 
creatures, a nobleman by nature and a gentleman 
by instinct. “Another Jim Coogan, Warry,” he 
muttered, thinking reverently of a very great 
player and a still greater man, who had recently 
been called from a world in which he had just 
begun to establish a reputation no less great than 
that which in Chase’s day had marked his career 
in the world of intercollegiate athletics. 

“If he is,” responded Warburton solemnly, “we 
want him in Haledon, whether he can play foot- 
ball or not. There are too few Jim Coogans on 
this fair earth.” 

“Right.” Chase nodded and then turned his 
eyes to the field, where the teams were arranging 
themselves for the kick-off. Pulver had won the 
toss, and had elected to receive the ball. Kerry 
was placing the ovoid upon a mound of earth on 
the forty-yard line and the cohorts of Annandale 
were cheering and waving their flags. There 
were no stands, and the spectators, who numbered 
perhaps twelve hundred men, women, boys, 

i8 


Annandale versus Pulver 


girls, and children, stood or sat behind a rope 
which extended along the opposite side of the 
field. Chase and Warburton thus had an unob- 
structed view of events on the gridiron. 

Just as the whistle blew for play to begin a 
motor-car came to a stop directly in front of 
Chase’s automobile. It was a great touring-car, 
and contained a party of four. From one side a 
Pulver pennant hung, while from the other de- 
pended the flag of Annandale. 

At the wheel was a large man of about sixty, 
rather distinguished in appearance; a boy of 
perhaps ten was standing up at his side viewing 
the proceedings on the field with every mani- 
festation of interest. His mother sat in the ton- 
neau and by her was a girl of eighteen, whose 
gray eyes and brown hair and slim, graceful fig- 
ure were so attractive that the two men in the 
other car, football veterans though they were, 
transferred their gaze from the tense scene on the 
field to her. 

‘‘That’s a fine family group,” muttered Chase, 
who, incidentally, was just starting one of his own. 

Warburton, similarly fortunate, nodded sym- 
pathetically. 

“Annandale people, I guess; though they seem 
to be divided in their sympathy.” 

19 


The Fullback 


‘‘I suppose,” returned Chase, ‘‘that they have 
a boy in Pulver. It’s only about twenty-five 
miles from here; you remember, we passed through 
it.” 

The correctness of this surmise was demon- 
strated an instant later when the boy on the 
front seat spoke excitedly, his voice accompanying 
the dull thud of the pigskin and the beating of 
feet on the hard turf. “Oh, look! Tom Kerry 
has kicked off and the ball is going straight to 
brother Hal.” 

The eyes of the two men turned to the field, 
where the clean, yellow ball was describing a 
beautiful parabola, falling rapidly toward the 
outstretched arms of a stocky young man stand- 
ing on Pulver’s five-yard line. The defense was 
picking off the charging high-school players with 
a precision which bespoke good coaching, and so 
many players were sprawled upon the field by 
the time the ball had settled into the back’s arms 
that this player was able to choose his course up 
the field with a great deal of certainty. 

He followed his interference for about ten yards, 
and then, seeing a lane to his right, suddenly 
broke away and pursued a course leading diag- 
onally toward the side-lines. 

“Foolish boy,” commented Chase, shaking his 
20 


Annandale versus Pulver 


head. ^‘He had better have stuck to his inter- 
ference. Kerry’s after him. Just look at those 
two chaps go, Warry!” 

It was indeed a pretty sight. The Pulver back 
had a clear field except for Tom, whom the runner 
was trying to skirt. But in attempting this his 
course was becoming more and more lateral, so 
that unless he could distance the tackier he would 
either be thrown or forced out of bounds. The 
man with the ball was running with the fast, short 
steps of the stocky type of player, while Kerry’s 
stride was the long, graceful, undulating motion 
of the antelope. 

‘‘Go on, Hal!” screamed the boy in the auto- 
mobile. “Tackle him, Tom!” 

There was a general laugh at this outburst. 

“I’m afraid,” said the father, turning and smil- 
ing at Chase, “that my son is hopelessly neu- 
tral.” 

Chase nodded, and then glanced at the girl who 
was now standing, her eyes fixed upon the flying 
pair, her lips shut. 

Then just before the side-lines were reached 
the runner turned sharply. Kerry launched him- 
self forward; there was a crash of bodies, and both 
tackier and tackled rolled out of bounds. But 
the Pulver cohorts were cheering; the ball had 
Zl 


The Fullback 


been returned twenty yards. The teams quickly 
lined up> and the pigskin was passed direct to 
Pulver’s boorish captain, who was playing at 
full. 

The attack was directed between the guard 
and tackle, and the offensive linesmen opened a 
hole very neatly. Through this the runner 
plunged and was nailed back of the line by 
Kerry. 

‘‘That was pretty secondary defense,^’ observed 
Warburton. “You see they sent their interfer- 
ence to the right and then shot this fellow through 
left; but Kerry diagnosed it to the dot. He 
tackles like a pile-driver, too; that chap won’t 
feel like carrying a ball again for two or three 
plays.” 

As a matter of fact, the runner was getting up 
slowly, as though the effort were laborious. In 
succeeding plays, Tom Kerry’s genius in divin- 
ing the enemy’s manoeuvres was exemplified in 
high degree. He was constantly blocking holes 
everywhere, not only on plays between tackle 
and tackle but in smashing interference and 
downing the runner on end plays. 

But where it is necessary for the defense to 
employ a secondary resistance consistently, the 
result is a series of short gains which eventually 
22 


Annandale versus Pulver 


lead to the goal-line. It was so with Pulver. In 
straight rushes they carried the ball to Annan- 
d ale’s five-yard line, and on the next play sent 
a man swinging wide for a touch-down. And 
this was largely the story of the game. 

Annandale’s line was weak and Kerry, single- 
handed, could do little beyond delaying the in- 
evitable score. Four times, when the local team 
had the ball, Kerry threw forward passes for 
distances ranging from ten to twenty yards in 
three instances — the ball whistling like a bullet 
and bounding from the chest of the receiver — 
and in the other, a long throw which went fully 
thirty-five yards down the field, cleanly and 
gracefully as an air-ship. It was out of this throw 
that Annandale made her lone touch-down, the 
receiver taking the ball with no one near him. 

Such gains as Kerry made through the line or 
around the ends — and he made several beautiful 
runs — were due solely to his own effort; for the 
interference which his men provided was of the 
most desultory and haphazard sort. 

‘‘He’ll do,” nodded Chase when the first half 
was ended. “He’s a natural football player, if I 
ever saw one. His team doesn’t look as though 
it had had any special coaching, but Kerry does 
the right thing by instinct.” 

23 


The Fullback 


“Yes/’ agreed Warburton, “he gives every 
sign of being one of the greatest backs I ever 
saw.” He paused. “And that’s saying something, 
let me tell you. For,” he added, smiling, “I’ve 
seen, among others, Enoch Chase.” 

“Oh, shut up,” grunted Chase. “Here comes 
Kerry now. He is certainly a fine-looking ath- 
lete — and handsome as the deuce, too.” 

Kerry, in fact, was approaching the other auto- 
mobile in company with the stocky, raven-haired 
Pulver player. Both were talking and smiling. 
Warburton and Chase watched them curiously. 
Evidently the son of this proud Annandale family 
had none of the compunctions which seemed to 
have afflicted his captain when he was talking to 
Tom before the game began. 

The Pulver boy leaped into the tonneau and 
embraced his mother, then placed his hand upon 
his father’s arm. The smaller brother had jumped 
to the ground and was now seated proudly upon 
Tom Kerry’s shoulder. 

“You played wonderfully, Tom,” the girl was 
saying. “But I’m afraid you were pretty much 
alone.” She flushed as she spoke and made a 
very pretty picture, glancing down at the hand- 
some young athlete. 

“Oh, they are a great deal better than we are,” 
24 


Annandale versus Pulver 


he replied, grimacing. “Fact is, Hal,” he said, 
turning to his friendly opponent, ‘‘I think it’s 
the best team I’ve ever played against.” 

“Yes,” replied the other, “we’re pretty strong 
this year, I think. One of our new professors 
played on Shelburne, in the East, and he’s been 
coaching us. We ought to win the State inter- 
scholastic. I hope so; for we have never won it, 
and this is my last year at Pulver.” 

The two men in the other automobile were 
leaning forward so obviously interested in the 
conversation that the impropriety would have 
been detected had not the other group been so 
engrossed in one another. 

“If Tom were only in Pulver!” said the girl, 
who was an ardent enthusiast in all matters per- 
taining to athletics. “You’d win the champion- 
ship easily. Wouldn’t you, Hal?” 

“I’d bet two to one on it,” replied her brother 
fervently. 

“I wish I were,” said Tom. 

“Did you see the way he bowled us over during 
the half?” Hal went on. “I got two of them and 
I’m sore all over — two of his tackles, I mean.” 

The man at the wheel laughed. 

“Look here, Tom, you be careful of my boy, 
do you hear?” Tom looked at him, smiling. 

25 


The Fullback 


‘‘All right, I will, Mr. Middleton. It would be 
as easy to hurt Hal as it would a block of wood.’’ 

“Middleton!” Chase sat up with interest as 
the two players left the automobile and returned 
to the field. “Why, that’s Horatio Middleton, 
one of our new directors. He was elected at the 
last meeting of the board. Come on, Warry, 
let’s go over and speak to him.” He stepped 
from the car, Warburton following, and made his 
way to the other automobile. “Mr. Middleton,” 
he opened, “I am Enoch Chase, the secretary 
and treasurer of the Western Aluminium Products 
Company, of which I believe you have just been 
made a director.” 

The man thus addressed beamed jovially upon 
the speaker. 

“Yes — ^yes,” he replied. “I am delighted to 
meet you, Mr. Chase; of course, I have heard a 
great deal of you. Mr. Chase, this is my wife; 
this my younger son, Ted; and my daughter, 
Louise Middleton.” Chase smiled, bowing, and 
then presented his friend. 

“We ran down from Columbus to see this boy 
Kerry play. We had heard of him as an extraor- 
dinary athlete and ” 

“Oh, he is, he is,” rejoined Middleton, “and 
not only that, but a sterling young fellow, too. 

26 


Annandale versus Pulver 


He’ll make his way in the world before he is 
through.” 

‘‘He seems very friendly with your son,” re- 
marked Warburton, ‘‘who, by the way, is a 
splendid player himself.” 

“They have been friends from childhood,” 
said Mrs. Middleton. “Tom is really a remark- 
able young man; he has always had a fine in- 
fluence over Hal.” 

“We met his father in the village,” Chase re- 
turned conversationally. “He struck me as rather 
a — rather a decent type of man.” 

The woman nodded. 

“He has always been very retiring, and no one 
sees much of him. But I knew his wife. She 
was a striking woman, very much above her 
husband in culture and breeding, if not in char- 
acter. She came of an excellent family — Ken- 
tucky horse-breeders. And her marriage with 
Mr. Kerry was a runaway match. I think, 
somehow, her husband lived to regret his impetu- 
osity — he was employed by her family in some 
expert capacity — horse-training, I think — but 
Mrs. Kerry always seemed supremely happy. 
And their little cottage was a veritable abode of 
love.” There was a tender note in her voice as 
she ceased speaking, and she glanced shyly at her 
27 


The Fullback 


husband, who chuckled and, reaching over, tapped 
her gently on the cheek. 

The girl’s eyes, which were fixed vacantly 
ahead, were shining and her face was flushed. 

hope he is going to college,” Chase said, 
opening a subject which had been clamoring in 
his mind for expression. ‘^At least he won’t 
settle down in his father’s store. As a matter of 
fact,” he went on, “Warburton and I came over 
to-day to look into that matter. He would make a 
valuable man for Haledon ” 

“For football .f*” Middleton’s glance was quiz- 
zical. 

“Why, yes.” Chase flushed. “But for other 
things as well. He is the Haledon sort.” 

“I think he is,” returned Middleton, smiling. 
“As a matter of fact. I’m a Haledon alumnus 
myself — ’8o; and Hal, of course, will enter there 
next September.” 

“Why, then,” Warburton exclaimed, “that, of 
course, settles it ! ” 

“I wish it did,” sighed Middleton, “but it 
doesn’t. I have been perfectly willing to see him 
through college — knowing he’d repay me in full 
through his career in the world, if not immedi- 
ately in money; but he won’t have it. He’s a 
quiet, proud chap, has all his mother’s spirit in 
28 


Annandale versus Pulver 


that way. He wouldn’t accept assistance from 
any one. He hasn’t even told Hal what his in- 
tentions are, but I reckon he intends going some- 
where to college.” 

They turned their attention to the game, which 
was now in progress on their side of the field. 
Annandale had the ball and Tom was being sent 
into the line. He was punching out three and 
five yards at a plunge. Chase’s quick eye noted 
that every time Pulver’s secondary defense closed 
in on the runner, Kerry’s head flew back, as though 
it were coming in contact with some hard obstacle. 
He nudged Warburton. 

‘‘That Pulver fullback is slugging Kerry,” he 
muttered. 

“Kerry is taking it quietly enough,” was the 
reply as the Annandale player arose from a first 
down, and wiping blood from a cut in his cheek 
stepped into his place, without a word, or a glance 
at the referee. 

The very next play he went into the line again, 
but somehow his head encountered no obstacle. 
When the mass of players disentangled itself, 
the Pulver captain and fullback did not arise. 
He was led to the side-line and thereafter watched 
the game with a vacant expression — and a sore 
jaw. 


29 


The Fullback 


Warburton glanced at his friend with raised 
brows, an amused expression in his eyes. Chase 
nodded. What the fellow had got he had hon- 
estly earned. 

Rather neat!” Chase turned toward the oc- 
cupants of the motor-car, and was relieved to find 
that their expressions of dismay over the injury 
of the Pulver leader embodied no thought other 
than that he was a victim of the exigencies of 
play. 

The end of the game saw Pulver’s score 28 and 
Annandale’s 7. The two teams ran from the 
field and were swallowed in the departing crowd 
of spectators. Young Middleton, who intended 
spending Sunday at his home, walked toward the 
Middleton car, his arm linked through Kerry’s. 

‘‘A good game.” Chase nodded at Middleton, 
and turned toward his motor-car. ^‘Anything 
you can do in behalf of Haledon so far as Kerry 
is concerned will be appreciated. I expect to 
have a talk with him to-night. I’ll remember 
what you said about his pride.” 

‘‘All right,” responded Middleton. “I’ll be in 
Columbus next week some day, and shall ask you 
to have luncheon with me. Good-by.” The 
two players crouched on the running-board and 
the motor rolled away. 


30 


Annandale versus Pulver 


‘‘This Middleton,’’ said Chase to^ Warburton, 
as he guided his car out into the road, “owns a 
big shoe factory here. He’s immensely wealthy, 
but apparently is a disciple of Demos. I liked 
his attitude toward Kerry.” 

“Yes, so did I,” agreed Warburton, “but I was 
more interested in the attitude of his daughter. 
Did you notice; she hardly ever took her eyes 
from our hero.?” 

“Umm!” Chase whistled. “Yes, I did catch 
two or three of her glances. I wonder how that 
will work out .? ” 

“Oh, she’s a kid yet,” returned the practical 
Warburton. “Hero worship, and all that sort of 
thing. He’ll be away from here for four years. 
New and more opulent gods will arise to claim her 
adoration.” 

“That’s usually the way,” sighed Chase, 
thinking of college days. “Well, it’s just as well. 
At least I found it so.” 

So, as the car bore them toward the place se- 
lected for supper, they talked of Tom and Louise 
Middleton and of many other things in the happy 
pursuit of which we will leave them temporarily, 
transferring our thought to the Middleton car, 
which was drawing up before the Kerry cot- 
tage. 


31 


The Fullback 


‘^You’ll come and dine with us to-night, won't 
you, Tommy?" asked Hal Middleton. 

‘'Of course, he will," interjected the father. 
“Hal can take the car around and get you." 

“Thanks, Mr. Middleton." Tom gazed at the 
cottage. “Only, I hate to leave father Saturday 
evenings. That used to be his great time at 
home, Saturdays and Sundays — he appears to 
miss mother more then than at any other time." 

“ I understand." Middleton nodded sympathet- 
ically. 

“But, look here," objected Hal. “Fm away all 
the week, and Fve got some rights in this matter." 

“Of course, Hal has some rights." Timothy 
Kerry came around from the corner of his house, 
smiling. “How do you do, Mr. Middleton — Mrs. 
Middleton. What's Tom been doing now?" 

It was Louise Middleton who answered. 

“We had just invited Tom to dinner and he 
says he can't come because he must stay with 
you." 

“Wrong, Louise," laughed Tom. “I said I 
wanted to stay with father." 

“Well, he can't." Timothy Kerry shook his 
head decidedly. “He can’t because Judge Timms 
has asked me to have supper with him. I was 
wondering how I’d get rid of the boy." 

32 


Annandale versus Pulver 

“Then it’ll be all right,” exulted Hal. “I’ll 
be around for you in about half an hour, Tom.” 

The car drove away and Tom and his father 
walked toward the house in silence. 

“Father,” said Tom at length, “you’re a bad 
teacher.” 

“I am! Why am I?” Kerry regarded his 
son curiously. 

“You always taught me never to lie under any 
condition, and just now you told one, a big one; 
I mean about Judge Timms.” 

“Look here, Tom.” His father gazed at him 
seriously. “You’re a young man, just stopped 
being a boy. The more friends a chap of your 
age — or any other age beyond eighteen — has the 
better off he is. The Middletons are the biggest 
people in this county and they like you. Now, 
you’d be a fool not to return their friendship in 
every way you can. You don’t want anything 
to be one-sided, do you; don’t want to have them 
give everything and you give nothing ? They 
asked you to dinner because Hal and the rest 
really wanted you. You can give them some- 
thing by going.” 

“But you — ’’Torn began. Kerry interrupted. 

“ But me 1 Nothing to that at all. I’ve lived 
my life; I have my friends and the time has come 
33 


The Fullback 


when — ^when — ’’ Kerry paused a moment — ‘^when 
you have to go your way, somewhat, without con- 
sidering me. That’s the law of life, and we’ve 
got to bend our knees to it. That’s the reason I 
told them that Judge Timms’s story. He did ask 
me, in truth; but I refused, thinking you would 
be alone.” 

‘‘There 1 And you think ” 

“I don’t think; I know that you’re going to 
the Middletons’. As for Timms, he told me to 
come to-morrow night, and I said I’d see.” 
Kerry shook his head emphatically. 

“Now, you hurry and take your bath and get 
ready. I’m glad you thought of me, Tom,” he 
added, “for the thought is what counts. Know- 
ing how you feel will be just as good as having you 
with me. What’s the matter, boy.? You don’t 
seem right, somehow.” 

“Father,” replied Tom, “I don’t feel proud of 
myself. I hit one of the Pulver players to-day 
and knocked him out.” 

The man’s blue eyes grew stern. 

“What did you do that for, Tom ?” 

“Why,” explained the boy, “I was gaining 
through the line the second half; every time I 
got through their fullback, Oliver, met me with 
his fist. He did it four times. I warned him 
34 


Annandale versus Pulver 


twice but it didn’t do any good; the fifth time I 
hit him as we went down.” Tom paused. “They 
carried Oliver off the field. I’ve felt like a cut- 
throat ever since.” 

The father deliberated a moment. 

“I suppose, Tom, I ought to say that you 
should have taken it all through the game. But 
I can’t. I’m afraid there are times in life when 
you have to hit back. You didn’t do it in 
anger 

“I was cool as I am now.” 

“In other words, you punished him,” the father 
said. “Well,” he shrugged, “it’s a little beyond 
me, I must confess. Some day soon, when I meet 
the parson — he was a great football player him- 
self, as you know — I’ll talk it over with him. 
Meanwhile I wouldn’t worry at all. Your face 
looks bad enough now. I don’t know what it 
would have looked like if he’d kept on.” 

Tom smiled. 

“That’s the way I felt about it.” 

He started suddenly, glancing down the road. 

“Pshaw! There come Mr. Adams and Mr. 
Wiley. They told me they’d see me after the 
game. In the excitement I forgot all about it. 
I rode home in Mr. Middleton’s car. I don’t know 
that I like either of them very much.” 

35 


The Fullback 


“You go up and get your bath while you’re 
still perspiring,” said Kerry; “Til talk to them 
till you come down. Hurry now, for Amanda 
says my supper is ready.” 

Amanda, a stout, old colored woman, who had 
been with Mrs. Kerry before her marriage and 
had always stuck to her, was gazing at them from 
the door, her good-natured brow wrinkled with 
impatience. 

“Mistah Kerry, dem bisquets I made will be 
hangin’ lop if you-all doan come in fo’ yo’ meal.” 

“All right, ’Manda, just a second.” 

He waited for the two approaching men while 
Tom ran up-stairs and soon filled the house with 
the sound of joyous splashing. 


36 


CHAPTER III 


A Bid from Three Colleges 

W HEN Tom came down dressed for the 
Middletons’, the cut on his cheek covered 
by a long narrow strip of court-plaster, he found 
his father and the two coaches at table. They 
were doing ^mple justice to Amanda’s coffee and 
biscuits. 

“Tom,” said Wiley, balancing a biscuit on his 
fingers, “you played mighty good ball to-day. 
There is no reason in the world why with proper 
coaching and development you shouldn’t become 
an All-American back. Now, I’d like you to come 
down to college with me in September. You 
could make the team in the freshman year — we 
play freshmen — and this you would not be able 
to do if you went to Moline or any of the big 
Eastern universities, where first-year men are 
debarred. We’ve a nice college of about five 
hundred students and are not far away from a 
good, live city where there’s a crowd of wealthy 
men who are interested in our athletics. Ask any 
of our star players who have graduated in the 
37 


The Fullback 


past four years if they are satisfied the way things 
broke for them — both when they were in college 
and out of it. You will find they have no kick 
coming. You could take the scientific course with 
a written contract signed by any one of five big 
mill owners that you’ll be put to work at a good 
salary when you get your sheepskin, and with 
every chance of advancement.” He paused and 
then went on. 

‘‘At the beginning of every term, Tom, you’ll 
find in the local bank a checking account of five 
hundred dollars placed to your credit.” 

Timothy Kerry whistled. 

“You certainly are ready to pay high for foot- 
ball talent, aren’t you.^” 

“We are,” was the prompt reply. “There’s no 
one will pay higher and mighty few as high. At 
least we don’t call it ‘pay,’ it’s merely an induce- 
ment. Of course, the college isn’t supposed to 
know anything about it; it’s done by patriotic 
alumni.” 

“But I don’t want to be an object of charity,” 
said Tom. “I do want to go to college, but I want 
to go freely and independently. I don’t quite see 
why any one should make me a present of five 
hundred dollars a year.” 

“You don’t!” returned Wiley. “Well, look 

38 


A Bid from Three Colleges 

here. Before I came to Cokedale it was the 
worst jerk-water dump you ever saw. John Gates, 
of the Aphrodite Mining Company, got me up 
there to put the place on the map. The first 
year was pretty bad. Til admit; the second year 
we beat Lehigh and Lafayette. The third year 
we cleaned up everything and tied Baliol. Last 
year we made a total sweep and hung one on 
Baliol, too.” 

^^Yes,” Tom nodded, know.” 

“Well, what happened.^” continued Wiley. 
“Cokedale jumped from obscurity into fame. 
Wealthy old grads, who had been ashamed to say 
they ever came from the college, suddenly sprang 
to life. One of them gave us a new dormitory, 
and now they are building a limestone laboratory 
at a cost of seventy-five thousand dollars — the 
gift of another Rip Van Winkle. Last fall our 
entering class was three times as large as it ever 
was before. This year it will be bigger yet. So 
that’s the reason for the five hundred dollars. 
There’s no charity about it. You’re giving a darn 
sight more than you get because you are helping 
to make Cokedale famous. Catch me.?” 

“What Wiley says is dead right,” chimed in 
Adams. “As a matter of fact, we couldn’t offer 
you any bank-account, but I could arrange to get 
39 


The Fullback 


you a job that’ll pay you twenty-five dollars a week 
while you are in college.” 

“But how can I study if I have to work?” 
asked Tom. 

Adams laughed. 

“There wouldn’t be any difficulty about that,” 
he said. “All you would have to do would be to 
show up at the office once in a while and look 
wise — oh, perhaps two or three times a week,” 

“I shouldn’t like that at all,” and Tom shook 
his head. 

“Nor would I,” agreed the father. 

Adams laughed again and pushed back his 
chair. 

“All right,” he said, “as a matter of fact. I’m 
looking for a couple of linesmen; my back field 
is pretty well taken care of for two years to come. 
I guess I’ll retire in your favor, Wiley.” 

The other man grinned as he rose from the 
table. 

“Well, what do you say, boy?” 

Tom glanced at his father, whose eyes were 
fixed thoughtfully upon the table. 

“What you’ve said, Mr. Wiley,” began Kerry, 
“is very interesting. Tom and I will talk it over. 
We’ll let you know within the week.” 

“Why not now?” 


40 


A Bid from Three Colleges 

‘‘Because/’ was the reply, “that would be snap 
judgment upon a serious matter. We won’t do 
that. We’ll let you know.” 

“All right.” Wiley and Adams turned to the 
door. “It’s an opportunity of a lifetime, Tom. 
If you’re sensible you won’t turn it down. I’ll 
expect to hear from you.” 

As they were leaving the room Hal Middleton 
entered. 

“Where you going to college, son?” asked Wiley, 
tapping him upon the shoulder. 

“Help !” laughed Adams, who had already made 
inquiries concerning him. 

“I’m going to Haledon. Why.?” Hal regarded 
Wiley curiously. 

“Oh, nothing.” The man paused. “Except — 
I wonder could you be induced to come to my 
college.” 

“I could not” was the emphatic reply. “My 
father and grandfather were both at Haledon.” 

“ Good night ! ” Wiley, whose breeziness seemed 
inexhaustible, backed out of the room in mock 
dismay. 

Hal frowned after him, and seemed relieved 
when the door closed. 

“We’re late now, Tom. Come on.” 

“All right. Good night, father.” 

41 


The Fullback 


“Good night, Tom. Oh, say, I should like to 
have you drop into the store about ten, will you 

“Surely.’’ The young man glanced at his 
father. “I really shouldn’t be away at all to- 
night. It’s our rush evening.” 

“Rush nothing!” laughed Kerry. “Everybody 
comes in and sits on the counter and smokes. 
That’s all the rush there is. Now, you go on.” 

“Good night, Mr. Kerry.” Hal gazed at the 
man with serious eyes. “I hope Wiley hasn’t 
persuaded you to send Tdpi to his college.” 

“Oh, I haven’t anything to do with it,” Kerry 
responded. “I’m going to think over what was 
said and later to-night Tom can have my advice 
— if he wants it.” 

“Of course, I want it.” Tom waved his hand at 
his father and followed his friend out of the room. 

“Tom,” Hal said when they were in the motor 
speeding toward the Middletons’ house, “Wiley 
hasn’t won you over, has he I You’ve never given 
me any definite understanding what you’re going 
to do. At least you’ve never said anything since 
you turned down father’s offer. Tell me honestly: 
is Haledon out of the question 

“Hal,” answered Tom, “I can’t say anything 
definitely yet. Of course, I understand how you 
fed. I have heard you shout Haledon from the 
42 


A Bid from Three Colleges 

time we were kids in short pants. You inherit 
Haledon; it’s a sort of religion with you. I un- 
derstand what you feel, but I can’t feel it. With 
me education and the opportunities growing out 
of it are the things that count most. What col- 
lege I go to depends upon the one that gives me 
the most. I have my way to make in the world; 
I start with nothing but the training my mother 
and father gave me. You start with — with every- 
thing, and you have an assured business to enter 
when you are graduate^.” 

“I suppose that chap Wiley has offered to buy 
your services,” said Hal, staring glumly at the 
road ahead. 

‘‘He has made me a good offer,” Tom returned, 
“and you may be certain I am going to consider 
it. Football and baseball, after all, are unim- 
portant things in themselves. If I can use both 
to help me, why shouldn’t I 

“But,” persisted the other, “you know father 
has always been ready to advance you the money 
for your college Cv.9urse at Haledon.” 

“Yes, but than, would be charity, pure and sim- 
ple.” 

“Not at all,” rejoinded Hal, “for he’d get it 
back, and with interest.” 

“No one could be certain about that,” shrugged 

43 


The Fullback 


Tom. “Now, Hal, please; let me work this out 
for myself. If I can see my way clear to be with 
you at Haledon Til go there, but Fll have to see 
my way darned clearly. I have to live my own 
life, you know.’’ 

Hal, realizing the futility of further argument, 
relapsed into silence and Tom, too, seemed disin- 
clined to talk. They thus arrived at the Middle- 
ton home in silence. 

It was a big white house, with long pillars in 
front. There was an immense lawn, filled with 
gardens and elms and maples; a winding drive- 
way, leading from the street, curved gracefully in 
front of the veranda. 

Louise Middleton was in the chrysanthemum 
bed, snipping off some faded flowers when the 
car arrived in front of the house. Hal’s father 
was in his study, the windows of which gave upon 
the lawn, and he hailed the boy. 

“Oh, Hal, will you come in here for a few min- 
utes ? Jl want to talk to you about that money I 
invested for you last spring.” ’ 

The boy nodded and, seeing that Tom was al- 
ready making his way toward Louise, he entered 
the house. 

The girl smiled brightly as Tom approached 
her. He had perceptions of nature sufficiently 
44 



Louise Middleton was in the chrysanthemum bed. 


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A Bid from Three Colleges 

artistic to note the effect of this trim, lithe girl, 
with her delicate coloring and beautiful waving 
hair, among the red and yellow flowers. She wore 
a white summer gown; for the October evening 
was soft and genial. 

‘‘Well, sir,” she smiled, “I was afraid you were 
going to present the appearance of some battered 
knight of old, after that rough game. But I see 
you’ve quite restored yourself. May I have the 
address of your beauty doctor.?” 

Tom laughed, feeling his cheek ruefully. 

“He is Thomas Kerry, Esq., of Annandale, 
Ohio, and Tm glad you approve of his skill.” 

“I most surely do.” She flushed. “Tom, Fve 
been wanting to ask you for some time; aren’t 
you going to Haledon to college .? You haven’t 
any idea what a beautiful place it is.” 

Tom Kerry, who had practically made up his 
mind to accept Wiley’s offer, felt a wave of weak- 
ness passing over him. She was so beautiful, her 
glance was so appealing, and it was so very flat- 
tering to have this radiant girl interested in him. 

“I am trying to decide now, Louise,” he replied 
simply. “If I— 'oh, I can’t say anything now ex- 
cept that I’m going somewhere to college, if I 
have to crawl through on my knees. But I shall 
go where the greatest opportunity offers.” 

45 


The Fullback 


She was gazing at him frankly. Standing tall 
and erect, with the level rays of sunlight gilding 
his proud head, he seemed to this sensitive girl 
the symbol and type of all youth — ^youth standing 
upon the threshold of the world, casting eyes for- 
ward eagerly, yearning for the beginning of the 
real battle of life. 

‘‘ Opportunity ! ” Her eyes fell. ‘‘ Somehow that 
word does not mean as much to us girls, to 
most of us, I mean, as it does to young men. We 
are trained to stay behind, sheltered, waiting for 
some one who has gone out and fought and won 
to bring us the spoils. Oh,’’ she added, ‘‘I’m 
sufficiently feminine. I’m afraid, to love that 
role; but there’s — there’s something big and fine 
about the other, about you — and the rest of the 
boys. . . . You’re going to be a lawyer, aren’t 
you ” 

“I want to be; I intend to be.” He had taken 
fire at her words and somehow the future, as he 
gazed into it, was illumined with rose-colored 
tints. “I — I should like to be a great lawyer.” 

“And you will be, Tom,” she said. “Father 
thinks so; we all think so. We all believe in you 
so, don’t you know, that — ” she laughed in a 
sort of embarrassment, “that you just cannot help 
succeeding.” 


46 


A Bid from Three Colleges 

Louise, instinctively, was playing the role that 
is played by all of her sex who are good and sweet 
and pure and sympathetic — inspiring her friend, 
exalting him, filling him with strengthened de- 
termination and increased ambition. It might 
well be the words she had uttered would be for- 
gotten by her amid the mutations of time, but 
the spirit lying back of them would ever exist, 
stimulating in its proper time all men falling within 
her sphere of influence, until at last she would 
meet him whose life and career she was destined 
to share. But Tom would never forget what she 
had said. Her words, her faith would thrill and 
spur him, would glorify all women in his eyes 
throughout all his time. 

‘H am glad Tm to have the chance to fight,’’ 
he said, speaking softly, ‘‘principally because — 
Do you know,” he cried suddenly, “it always 
frightens me when you and your father and all 
say they believe in me. In a way it — it puts an 
obligation on me ” 

“Of course, it does,” she replied promptly. 
“What man is worth his salt without an obliga- 
tion ^ You may believe you are obligated — 
obligated to live up to our faith in you, and you’ll 
justify it, never fear.” She glanced toward the 
veranda, where a servant stood looking at them. 
47 


The Fullback 


‘‘But come; Minna is announcing dinner, and 
we’re slaves to punctuality in our home.” 

Dinner at the Middletons was a stately, old- 
fashioned function, presided over with ineffable 
decorum by Peter, the old black butler. All 
stood while the head of the house, his hands 
clasped over the back of his chair, invoked the 
divine blessing. What a family I Something 
akin to a lump came up in Tom’s throat as he 
gazed at the beautiful sedate matron at one end 
of the table, her dignified, if jovial, master at the 
head; Hal at his right, and little Ted at his left; 
Louise at her mother’s right and Tom at her left. 
He recalled once when a boy of thirteen how he 
and his mother had sat at this table, and he re- 
membered how beautiful his mother looked, how 
very much a lady, and how proud of her he was. 
This carried his thoughts to his mother’s proud 
family down in Bowling Green, Kentucky, who 
had never forgiven her because she had married 
the man she loved, who had not even replied to 
letters announcing her death. Dark thoughts 
filled his mind. He would show them before he 
was through. 

In a way women have, both Mrs. Middleton 
and Louise divined his thoughts and allowed him 
to think them out. When they did speak they 
48 


A Bid from Three Colleges 

were kindly and sympathetic and deftly tempted 
him out of his gloom. And he understood and 
he would cheerfully at any moment have laid 
down his life for any member of the Middleton 
family. 

Hal and his father talked of Haledon, whither 
Hal was to go the following September. Mr. 
Middleton was full of the subject, and Tom sus- 
pected he was talking for his benefit, although 
nothing was said to confirm it. 

‘‘When you get to Haledon, Hal,’’ the man was 
saying, “you’ll find many a path I’ve beaten out, 
which I don’t wish you to tread. There’s one 
path, for instance, leading to old Prexy McLaren’s 
study. He used to wear an old beaver hat, an 
impossible thing. I got his head measure and 
wrote to father — ^your grandfather — to buy the 
finest silk hat that could be purchased. He did 
so and sent it down to me. Then I sneaked into 
his room one night and got his old beaver and 
cut it up. Each of our class got a piece; I my- 
self took the whole crown; you’ve seen it in my 
scrap-book.” 

“Well, the president benefited by the change, 
didn’t he, Mr. Middleton.?” asked Tom. “He 
got a new silk hat.” 

The man laughed heartily. 

49 


The Fullback 


“Yes, Prexy got the hat all right, but do you 
know he was wild with rage. He would never 
wear it, never. And he prayed in chapel that the 
rascals who had mutilated his beaver be delivered 
into his hands for punishment. He was a very 
devout man and I recall well what he said. His 
prayer ran something as follows: 

“ Xord, thou hast said vengeance is thine and 
that thou wilt repay, but in this instance I pray 
thou wilt deliver these miscreants to me and 
upon this one occasion leave vengeance in my 
hands. I do solemnly swear that it shall be most 
exemplary and most adequate.’ Imagine how we 
trembled!” Mr. Middleton broke olF into a 
hearty burst of reminiscent laughter in which the 
rest joined. 

Several neighbors, accompanied by their sons 
and daughters, came in for cards and conversa- 
tion in the evening. Hal, Tom, and Louise were 
drafted into service at one of the tables, and it 
was quite ten o’clock when Tom was able to make 
his departure. 

He was thus some ten minutes behind the hour 
when he arrived at the store. He saw a big motor- 
car standing at the curb, the chauffeur, leaning 
back in his seat, smoking a pipe. Tom hurried 
into the place and in a back room, where Kerry 

50 


A Bid from Three Colleges 

attended to his clerical work, he found Enoch 
Chase and Warburton. 

He was impressed with both of them. They 
were brisk in manner and their appearance in- 
dicated men who amounted to something in the 
world. His father introduced them, and neither 
had played football at Haledon so many years 
ago that their fame had not reached the young 
man. 

“Tom,” began Chase without preliminaries, 
“your father has been telling me of your con- 
versation with ‘Dutch’ Wiley. Now, what I am 
going to say to you is straight from the heart and 
is for your own good. I hope you’ll take it that 
way.” 

Tom nodded and seated himself upon the desk. 

“Yes, sir,” he said. 

“Now, this fellow, Wiley, happens to have 
played football at my college, Haledon. There 
are reasons why he didn’t graduate; at all events, 
he played on our team for two years — and he was 
one of the best players we ever had. But Haledon 
is not proud of him, just the same. And I’ll tell 
you why,” he added quickly, as though fearing 
that the boy would think he was cheaply taking 
advantage of Wiley’s absence to besmirch him. 
“It’s because of what he’s trying to do with you — 

51 


The Fullback 


because of what he has done to many a good boy — 
commercialized his athletic ability and in many 
instances made a loafer, a professional, and a tout 
out of what might otherwise have been an able 
man and an upright citizen/’ 

‘‘But I don’t see that he was trying to make 
any of those things out of me, Mr. Chase,” replied 
Tom judicially. “He says that my ability to play 
football is an asset to the growth of the college, 
and that if I prove good enough as a player I will 
earn everything I get.” 

“But you must see that makes you a profes- 
sional,” Chase rejoined. 

“Yes, in a way it does,” admitted Tom, “but 
only morally.” 

“But you don’t want to be a moral or any 
other kind of a professional.” 

“I don’t know about that.” Tom shook his 
head doggedly. “I don’t know that a man is 
disgraced because he is a professional; it de- 
pends upon what he is as a man.” 

“That’s true,” Chase took him up, “but what 
sort of a man is it who accepts money for playing 
football and baseball — that’s what Wiley’s plan 
comes down to — and plays it under the guise of 
an amateur against boys who are really amateurs 
That is not what you’d call honorable, is it?” 

52 


A Bid from Three Colleges 

‘‘There are others in the same boat each year, 
aren’t there ? ” asked Tom. 

“There are some, I suppose, in every college,” 
admitted Chase. “At Haledon, Baliol, Shel- 
burne, and other places who cherish ideals the 
number is small and anything that is done in 
that way is done by alumni under cover; wealthy 
sneaks who risk jeopardizing the good name of 
their alma mater in return for a few victories. 
But you may be certain it is not countenanced 
by the faculties, who are constantly seeking to 
root it out.” 

“But evidently Wiley’s college doesn’t make 
much of a secret of it,” argued Tom. “Wiley’s 
attitude doesn’t suggest it.” 

“No; it’s an open secret about Cokedale, as 
well as about other colleges I could name. But 
that doesn’t improve the moral aspect of the case.” 

“Baliol plays Cokedale,” said Tom. 

“Yes, because Baliol happens to have been 
tied and then defeated in early season games 
against that college. In other words, Baliol will 
soil her hands with a mucky team simply in order 
to get even. I won’t go into the rotten philos- 
ophy of that,” grimaced Chase. “Haledon has 
done it, too, and Shelburne — all three of which 
should set a better example.” 

S3 


The Fullback 


‘Xan’t you see, Tom,” broke in Warburton, in 
his heavy, ponderous way, “that in capitalizing 
your athletic ability you stultify yourself?” 

“Well, I don’t quite see that,” returned Tom 
earnestly. “If I did I shouldn’t sit here talking 
about it. I wouldn’t consider Wiley’s offer. 
But here’s the situation with me: Father here 
has just enough to get along on. He has made a 
sacrifice in keeping me in the high school ” 

“Tom!” Kerry shook his head admonish- 
ingly. 

“It’s true, just the same,” went on his son 
doggedly. “And I wish to complete my education 
because, well because, as it seems to me, it’s the 
best thing for me. You see, Hal Middleton, my 
friend, is going to Haledon as much because his 
ancestors went there as anything else. He’s got 
his father’s business to take up and perhaps would 
be better off so far as making money is concerned 
if he didn’t go to college at all, or, at least, just 
as well off. What I mean is, his going to college 
is a matter of sentiment; a good deal of it is 
anyway.” 

“I understand.” Chase nodded. 

“Now, there’s no sentiment with me. I’ve 
got my way to make in the world, and I’m going 
to do it the shortest way I honorably can. What 
54 


A Bid from Three Colleges 

does going to Wiley’s place mean to me ? Why, 
it means I can plunge right ahead in my studies 
without worrying about money — that I’ll make 
influential friends and, in short, have the way 
greased for me a little. Father and I have never 
had the ways greased for us in this life. But when 
I get going — well, father won’t have any more 
worries about money.” Tom slipped down from 
the desk and stood erect, gazing defiantly at the 
two visitors. 

There was a pause and then Chase spoke 
musingly. 

‘‘Tom, don’t think I don’t sympathize with you, 
that I don’t understand exactly what you mean. 
I do. And yet, I wonder if any boy ought to have 
the ways greased for him in the way Wiley in- 
tends. You are brighter and more discerning 
than your years would suggest. Now, think a 
minute: would you or wouldn’t you be bigger 
and better and stronger and more qualified to 
succeed in the game of life if you started the game 
on your own feet He paused and then went on. 

“What happens if you go to Cokedale ? You 
enter there like a pampered darling. So far as 
you’re concerned, you’re there to study and get 
an education. But in the eyes of a large group 
in that college, if not in the eyes of the college 
55 


The Fullback 


itself, you’re a mercenary, a hireling who has to 
deliver the goods. If you break your leg or fail 
to play up to the expected standard you’re dropped 
like a sucked-out orange. The whole situation is 
bound to react upon you and to affect you, because 
you are too fine a grain to avoid it. I know your 
sort; in a way I know you better than you know 
yourself. You’re the chap who will go a great 
way up or a great way down; you don’t do any- 
thing half-way. Then, again, as I said, you are 
constantly practising deceit in posing as an 
amateur when you’re not; and you’re imposing 
upon a lot of chaps who are. You can’t do that 
and survive, boy.” 

‘‘Haledon doesn’t believe in helping a boy, 
then?” asked the father. 

‘‘It does, but not in that way,” Chase replied. 
“There is a board there which seeks to place 
needy boys in the way of making sufficient money 
and I could secure for Tom a partial remission of 
tuition fees; not all. If he goes to Haledon — and 
I want him to not only because he’s a fine athlete, 
but because he’s a boy who would be a credit to 
the university — he will have to go on his own 
feet and fight, fight like the mischief. There’ll 
be no bank-account, not a cent. But if he goes, 
he’ll work it out and he’ll be graduated a man in 

56 


A Bid from Three Colleges 

all that the term implies — a big, fine man. And 
he’ll have friends, real friends, whose friendship 
means something substantial and enduring. And 
they’ll be in every State in the Union.” Chase 
smiled. “Two of them will be in Columbus, 
Ohio.” 

He arose and stretched out his hand. Tom., 
who was standing very rigid, took it mechan- 
ically. 

“Now, think it over, my boy, weigh everything 
seriously; for a great deal, so far as you are con- 
cerned, depends upon it.” 

Timothy Kerry was searching his boy with 
eager eyes. 

“Yes, think it over.” Warburton turned to- 
ward the door. 

It was then that Tom spoke, a flush slowly 
spreading over his face. 

“I don’t have to think it over, Mr. Warbur- 
ton, Mr. Chase. I’ve decided.” His eyes flashed, 
“/’m going to Haledon — to fight.’’ 


57 


CHAPTER IV 


The Man-Hunt 

IMOTHY KERRY from the first heartily 



i approved of his son’s decision to go to 
Haledon. It meant a fight, to be sure, but a 
fight in his mind was what every boy needed. 

“Tom,” he had said after Enoch Chase and his 
friend, Warburton, had departed, “I never did 
like the looks of that offer of Wiley’s. You can’t 
take money in that way and get away with a clean 
character — at least the average boy can’t. I 
don’t know why, but it leaves a bad grain some- 
where inside. Once make easy money and you 
always want to make it — and that’s bad. I can 
tell you that, myself,” he added, “because it 
happened to me.” 

The remaining weeks of the fall saw the Annan- 
dale High School eleven victorious over several 
schools of their own class, while Pulver, to Hal 
Middleton’s great joy, finally worked through 
the state interscholastic championship schedule, 
winning every one of her games. Hal was, of 
course, delighted at his friend’s intentions con- 


58 


The Man-Hunt 


cerning Haledon, while Mr. Middleton lost no 
time in opening correspondence with the univer- 
sity bureau of student help in the prospective 
freshman’s behalf. 

Always in the first week in November Timothy 
Kerry went off shooting with his old friend Timms, 
the village lawyer and magistrate. This had 
been an annual function ever since Tom could 
remember, and at least from his twelfth year he 
had, through arrangement with the principal of 
the school, devoted the week to the conduct of 
the store, while studying his lessons over the little 
counter. This year was no exception, although 
the father had debated long before deciding to go, 
feeling that since his son would be away at col- 
lege he had better adjust his plans at once to his 
absence in the ensuing four years. But Tom 
would not hear of it. 

‘‘I hadn’t thought about that when I planned 
for college, father,” he said, ‘‘and if it’s going to 
tie you down that way all through your life — 
why Vd rather give up the whole idea.” 

“Yes, and spoil your whole life for me.” 
Kerry’s voice was emphatic but his eyes were 
soft. “I’ll go this year since you make it a point; 
but — well, we’ll let the future alone for a while. 
Perhaps things will straighten out. I think they 
59 


The Fullback 


do when you live right, Tom. If I could only get 
that morgage paid off I would feel I could afford 
to hire an assistant.” 

“It’s eighteen hundred dollars, isn’t it.?” asked 
Tom. 

“Yes, eighteen hundred,” was the reply. “It 
means nine dollars a month out for interest. 
Business has been getting better all along, what 
with the growth of the village and the fact that 
the farmers are beginning to use Annandale as a 
shipping-point, I am able to put a little aside 
every week against the principal. But it’s a long 
pull.” 

“You wait until I get through college.” Tom 
shook his head savagely. “As a matter of fact. I’m 
going to make money while I’m in college. There’s 
no reason I can see why a fellow shouldn’t.” 

“Maybe,” smiled his father, “but, after all, 
study is the main thing, and we’re both sufficient 
sports to play the future against the present.” 

So saying, he took his kit, shouldered his gun, 
and clambered into the buggy waiting outside. 
Judge Timms clucked at his old faded horse, and 
with backward waves of their hands the two 
rattled away down the village street. 

As the fates decreed, events were imminent in 
Annandale which were to cause the worthy magis- 
6o 


The Man-Hunt 


trate to regret his absence from the village, al- 
most as much as he regretted the sprained ankle 
which had kept him out of the battle of Gettys- 
burg. 

Now Annandale was one of the old communities 
of the Western Reserve. Fifty years before it 
had been destined to attain at least county great- 
ness, but the vagaries of a great railroad corpora- 
tion had resulted in the elimination of the place 
from the projected main line. Thus it was that a 
hamlet five miles away received the blessing, 
which, as events turned, had proved indeed a 
blessing. Blainesville had grown, as it were, over- 
night from insignificance to importance. Now it 
was the county seat, a place of factories and 
stores and social pretension. Annandale remained 
as before — solid, self-respecting, her two thousand 
population of the sixties having increased with 
extreme deliberation to her present thirty-five 
hundred. Within the past ten years the railroad 
had sent a spur to Annandale, largely through the 
influence of Horatio Middleton, who at the time 
was sitting in the State Legislature. There had 
been no immediate effect, except the larger 
growth of the Middleton shoe factory, until 
recently when the farmers of the region of which 
Annandale was the centre had begun to employ 
6i 


The Fullback 


the spur for shipment of their products to Colum- 
bus and other cities, instead of transporting it 
for distribution to Blainesville. The entire vil- 
lage had profited by the change and the future of 
Annandale was viewed with optimism. 

The village rested upon the main street — which 
began and ended in the open country, leading 
thence to Blainesville in one direction and on the 
other to the county line. Here, on the elm- 
shaded turnpike, as it was called, stood Annan- 
dale’s stores, with the village square and its white 
church facing them. Around the square were 
the homes of the locally elect, while the humbler 
citizens resided upon shady little thoroughfares 
running off* either side of the main highway. 

Tom Kerry had no great difficulty in arranging 
with the school authorities to absent himself for 
a week. He was well ahead of his class, being 
by nature curious and never content to linger 
with the scholastic problems of the day. If, for 
example, his class was considering the Anabasis 
it was merely his natural craving to know that 
carried him ahead of the lesson into the further 
exploits of Xenophon. And so with physics and 
mathematics; he had always the inclination to 
probe ahead. Each day some classmate would 
bring him the lessons and at his leisure he would 
work them out, sending them to his teacher by 
62 


The Man-Hunt 


the newsboy who each evening brought a Blaines- 
ville newspaper to the kindly pedagogue’s door. 

His existence was not a lonely one. After 
school hours groups of high-school pupils would 
congregate in the store, and villagers were con- 
stantly dropping in either to buy or, as was a 
habit which Timothy Kerry had encouraged, to 
discuss the simple daily annals of the village. 
Then at five o’clock there was the task of getting 
three urchins started on their paper routes, 
checking up the business of the day and rear- 
ranging stock which the activities of the day had 
thrown into disorder. At seven o’clock, save on 
Saturday nights, the store was closed. 

Tom had never quite outlived the awe and 
pride which had filled him when as a boy he had 
been left in charge of the store. There had been 
always the impression that he was doing some- 
thing tangible, accounting for himself in the 
proper way, playing his part in the great world. 
There was a solid peace and placidity in Annan- 
dale’s business environment which appealed to a 
certain poetic strain in Tom’s nature — while 
trade was just sufficient to add a degree of neces- 
sary zest. 

He loved this amiable game of barter; it ap- 
pealed to instincts of shrewdness, the expression 
of which gave him infinite pleasure. There were 

63 


The Fullback 


certain patrons who consistently took advantage 
of his father’s good nature in the way of willing- 
ness to shade prices, and there were still others 
— toward whom Tom entertained no great emotion 
of kindliness — whose payment of their paper bills 
was coincident each year with Tom’s advent as 
storekeeper. Tom saw to that. 

The fifth evening after the departure of his 
father and Judge Timms Tom went out upon 
the street to put up the blinds and bring in the 
paper stall. It was dark and the lights were 
gleaming from the various shops along the street. 
It was cold and there was a hint of snow in the 
chill air. Across the square lights were leaping 
forth from the stately, old-fashioned homes. 
There was always an element of appeal to Tom 
in this picture of Annandale preparing for the 
night, a feeling not exclusively due to the fact 
of his knowledge that a mile away in a little cot- 
tage a deft and good-natured colored woman had 
prepared dinner for him as only she could. 

Two doors below was a three-story brick build- 
ing — the Annandale bank. From behind lowered 
curtains came a dull glow of light. Tom smiled. 
Friday was always a busy day in this institution; 
evidently Mr. Arkwright, the cashier, was des- 
tined again to be late for his evening meal. 

64 


The Man-Hunt 


He had just turned to enter his store when a 
loud outcry broke the quiet. A pistol-shot soon 
followed. Turning quickly, Tom stood tense, try- 
ing to locate the source of the sounds; he saw a 
figure dash down the steps of the bank and turn 
into the adjoining side street. 

Amos Budd, the policeman, who was hurrying 
up the turnpike, saw the man as had Tom. Both 
ran at top speed for the corner and, turning, made 
out the dark form of the fugitive perhaps half a 
block away. He was running with a long, loping 
stride, suggesting one who has made up his mind 
to make a long race of it. The policeman dis- 
charged three shots of his pistol at the figure, 
who paused to return the fire and then resumed 
his flight. Tom could hear the whine of the bul- 
lets over his head, but instead of holding back 
the sound filled him with fighting fury. Evidently 
the fellow had done some mischief in the bank, per- 
haps killed Mr. Arkwright. Stooping, he picked 
up a stone from the gutter and then caught up 
with Budd, who was pounding along at desperate 
pace. But the man ahead was running swiftly, 
and while Tom knew he could catch him provided 
he did not lose his quarry in the darkness, he had 
grave doubts of the policeman’s ability. 

Tom, who could do the hundred-yard dash under 

6S 


The Fullback 


average conditions in ten and two-fifths seconds, 
calculated that he could overhaul the fleeing man, 
but, excited as he was, he had sufficient sense not 
to attempt to close in upon an armed desperado 
with nothing but a stone in his hand. He chafed 
at the comparatively heavy pace of the police- 
man. 

‘‘Mr. Budd,” he said, “let me have your re- 
volver. I can catch him and hold him for you.’’ 

But the man shook his head. 

“Well, ril take a chance anyway and at least 
get close enough to see where he goes when he 
passes the last street-lamp.” So saying, he threw 
back his head and spurted past his companion. 
The success of his sprint was evidenced a few 
minutes later when the dim figure ahead turned 
and sent two shots flying backward. 

“One shot in the bank,” muttered Tom, “two 
when we were coming around the corner. If he’s 
got a five-shooter he’s got to load. If it’s a six- 
shooter he has one more shot. I’ll keep on and 
draw his fire.” 

He was purely and simply a man of action now, 
and like all men of the sort he had slowly but 
surely worked himself up to the point where 
thoughts of what might happen to him were well 
in the background of his mind. He was now fired 
66 


The Man-Hunt 


with the single impulse of effecting the capture 
of the outlaw. Glancing over his shoulder, he 
caught a glimpse of Budd running about a hun- 
dred feet behind him, but falling behind all the 
time. Evidently he would have to handle the 
first stages of this matter himself. 

The man had not fired again, although Tom was 
gaining materially, a fact which indicated that 
his last shot had been discharged. And at his 
headlong pace he could not possibly reload. 
Tom, who was thinking ahead, decided that even- 
tually the man would slacken his speed sufficiently 
to restock his weapon with bullets and make a 
stand as the only alternative to being captured. 
If he had been empty-handed he could have re- 
loaded on the run, but, as it appeared to Tom and 
as actually was the case, he was carrying some- 
thing in one hand, something that he did not care 
to relinquish. 

As it proved, the fellow did precisely as Tom 
had surmised. But first he turned from the road 
and entered a meadow, at the far extremity of 
which lay a woods. If he could make this there 
would be no further trouble for him that night 
at least. 

But he had not gone a hundred yards before it 
became clear to him that he could not reach cover. 
67 


The Fullback 


He stopped abruptly and calmly and deliberately 
placed bullets in the chamber of his weapon. 
With a growl of satisfaction he suddenly straight- 
ened up and discharged two shots in rapid suc- 
cession at Tom, who was now within fifty feet of 
him. 

“You quit and go home, or you’ll get hurt,” 
cried the man. 

Tom slowed down, stopped in fact. A glance 
behind showed that he had outrun the police- 
man so materially that Budd had not yet gained 
the meadow. The man was turning and begin- 
ning to run. 

“Stop,” Tom called, breaking into another 
sprint and gaining rapidly, so rapidly that the 
fugitive faced about again and fired another 
bullet. Tom heard a faint whine; evidently the 
ball bad passed far over his head or to one side. 
He couldn’t be an especially good marksman, 
since the shot was delivered from a standing 
position at not more than forty feet. Closer, his 
aim might be better. 

Tom turned over in his hand the stone which 
he had picked up. It was a badly balanced mis- 
sile, heavy at one end and pointed at the other. 
Then, suddenly, his hand was clapped to his 
pocket, in which he felt a bulky object. He drew 
68 


The Man-Hunt 


it forth with a cry of satisfaction. It was a base- 
ball, a fifty-cent baseball which he had taken 
out of stock purposing to use it at home in the 
development of a new twist which he believed he 
had discovered. 

The man, who was evidently in desperate mood 
and filled with realization that Tom must be 
eliminated if he was to make good his escape, 
was standing stock-still, his arm outstretched, 
taking careful aim, but waiting for Tom to ap- 
proach a bit closer. The boy was already within 
forty feet of him. 

Tom balanced the ball with a sigh of satis- 
faction. He was a first-class pitcher, whose de- 
livery had already attracted the attention of 
the manager of a small State league team in 
Blainesville. He had, to fall into the parlance of 
the diamond, a whip of steel and beautiful control. 
He had slipped the stone into his pocket against 
emergency; his reliance was the ball. His 
fingers were now gripped lovingly around its 
smooth surface. He balanced it an instant and 
then as another lance-like line of flame and the 
report of the pistol came he smiled, wound up 
slightly, and let drive. 

He was a boxman who could cut every corner 
of the plate, who had given not over four bases 
69 


The Fullback 


on balls in the past two seasons. As the ball 
left his hands he leaned forward, as he always did 
when an important strike was wanted. It was 
what is technically known as a ‘‘fast ball,” a 
ball with little curve but a hop at the end, a per- 
fectly dreadful ball, as any full-fledged baseball 
player will testify. 

It went with a zip, it whistled; it went as 
straight to that dark figure as though it were 
endowed with eyes and an undeviating sense of 
direction. He had thrown it a trifle low de- 
signedly, and a trifle low it went. In fact, it sank 
into the pit of the man’s stomach with a sound- 
ing thud. The recipient went to the ground as 
though stricken by lightning, and lay rolling and 
writhing on the ground, pawing at his midriff, 
gasping for the wind that had been knocked out 
of him. 

Tom stood over him prepared for action in 
event of emergency, but the gigantic Amos 
Budd, lumbering up, puffing heavily, saved him 
the necessity. By the time the man was able to 
draw a few whiffs of air into his lungs he was se- 
curely handcuffed. He lay sullenly staring up 
at his captors, still suffering from the shock of the 
unexpected blow. 

“That was fine work, Tom,” grunted Budd 
70 


The Man-Hunt 


approvingly. ‘‘How did it happen? I heard his 
shots and then saw him tumble like an ox.’^ 

Tom laughed. 

“He stood when he saw I was catching him 
and was taking aim as I threw a baseball at 
him. I had it in my pocket to take home ‘and 
throw against a carpet on the clothes-line for 
practise, you know. I didn’t remember it until 
my hand knocked against the thing.” 

The jovial policeman threw back his head, 
roaring with laughter. 

“Well, if that ain’t a new one. Threw a bean- 
ball at a burglar — at least I guess that is what the 
gent is. Let’s see.” He took an electric search- 
lamp and flashed it upon the prisoner’s face. 

It was not a prepossessing countenance; it 
was, quite the contrary, a face seamed and rutted 
with evil lines. His brows were heavy, his mouth 
sinister, his jaws bulging. He was, in fact, quite 
the typical lawbreaker of Tom’s imagination. 
He was thick-set and powerful, and would have 
made an ugly customer for any man to tackle. 
Tom’s respect for his fast ball grew as he gazed 
upon the forbidding creature. 

“Where is his pistol?” Budd was sweeping 
the ground with the search-light. “Oh, here it 
is — a thirty-eight. Lucky he didn’t get you 

71 


The Fullback 

with — What’s this ?” His light had fallen upon 
a small satchel. 

‘‘He was carrying that in his hand,” Tom ex- 
plained. 

Budd had picked it up, examining it carefully. 
It was quite heavy and bore upon its side the 
initials of the Annandale National Bank. It 
was now quite clear that the fellow had seized 
this from the cashier’s desk, having first either 
killed or wounded Mr. Arkwright. In fact, it 
was not until the bag had been identified that 
the policeman’s mind reverted to the shot which 
had been fired in the bank. 

“Tom!” he cried. “Look here — who knows 
what has happened to Mr. Arkwright.?” He 
glowered down at the burglar, who had now 
arisen to a sitting posture and was staring ahead 
into the night. “Come on.” Budd, brandish- 
ing his club in one hand and seizing the man by 
the collar with the other, jerked him to his feet, 
whereupon the fellow kicked viciously at his 
captor, luckily missing him by a few inches. A 
smart blow from the club rewarded him for his 
amiable intentions. 

“You just come along, my friend,” growled 
Budd, “or I’ll fix you so you’ll have to be car- 
ried.” As an earnest of his sincerity, he punched 
72 


The Man-Hunt 


the man in the ribs with his night-stick. “Td 
just like nothing better than to beat your head 
in,” he continued, ‘‘so you just start something 
and see where you land.” 

As the man still stood sullenly, Budd raised 
his stick with such fierce intensity of purpose 
that he decided upon discretion and moved for- 
ward in the direction of the road, Tom on one 
side and Budd on the other. A farmer happened 
to be driving into the village with his truck-wagon 
and the policeman commandeered it, the man, 
whose spirit now seemed to be broken, stepping 
into the vehicle upon the word. 

Thus it was that the party arrived in the centre 
of Annandale. There was a large group in front 
of the bank, and Doctor Keeley’s motor-car stood 
in front. 

“We’d better get this bird straight to the lock- 
up,” said Budd, glancing at the bank. ‘"Hey, 
Dan,” he cried, hailing the remainder of Annan- 
dale’s police force who was hurrying out of the 
bank at the moment. “How’s Mr. Arkwright?” 

“He’s got a bad wound in the chest,” was the 
reply; “but the doctor thinks he can pull out. 
He’s still conscious. We’ve sent for the ambulance 
from Blainesville. Who’ve you got there?” 

“I’ve got the man that did the shooting and 

73 


The Fullback 


that robbed the bank/’ roared Budd proudly. 
Tom Kerry and I nabbed him. We’re going to 
get him around to the lockup.” 

‘‘Don’t you think,” suggested Tom, “that it 
would be wise for Mr. Arkwright to see him, 
since he’s conscious ” 

“What for asked the policeman. “We ought 
to get him under lock and key.” 

“Yes, but if Mr. Arkwright should, should not 
live, how would we know this fellow shot him ? 
Couldn’t he say a pal did it, or something.?” 

“I guess you’re right,” admitted Budd, who 
hauled the captive out of the wagon and hustled 
him into the bank, where, on a lounge in the back 
room lay the wounded cashier. Doctor Keeley 
leaning over him and Mr. Middleton and one or 
two other directors standing near by. 

Arkwright was raised gently and gazed at the 
sinister figure confronting him. He closed his 
eyes wearily and nodded. 

“That’s the man,” he said. 

“All right,” said Budd, “that’s good enough 
for me.” He turned to Mr. Middleton and 
hastily related the story of the capture, and then, 
summoning the other policeman, the outlaw was 
taken away. As Tom was leaving with them Mr. 
Middleton slapped him heartily upon the back. 
74 


The Man-Hunt 


‘‘A good night’s work, Tom. It shan’t be for- 
gotten.” He smiled. “I’m proud of you, my boy. 
You’ve saved the bank a nasty loss, and more 
than that you’ve done the community an excellent 
turn.” 

It may be believed that Tom and his bean-ball 
were famous the next morning, not alone in Annan- 
dale but throughout the State. It was the sort 
of story the newspapers like, and they made the 
most of it. Tom was dazed when he looked over 
the Blainesville and Columbus papers, while the 
store was filled with those who wanted to hear 
the story straight from the lips of the hero. It 
should be said that except in the cases of a few 
friends their desire was not gratified. 

“How did you feel, Tom,” asked Dave Hardy, 
his catcher on the high-school team, “when you 
were facing those bullets I don’t see how in the 
world you stood your ground. I shouldn’t.” 

“That’s what you say,” returned Tom, “but 
somehow when you get into such a scrape you 
don’t think so much of being hurt. You think 
more of what you are going to do to the other fel- 
low. I suppose that’s the way it is in a battle.” 

But Dave shook his head dubiously, remarking 
that it took more nerve than he possessed. 

“What are you talking about, Dave,” exclaimed 

75 


The Fullback 


another boy. “Didn’t you receive Tom’s deliv- 
ery all last summer What are you talking about ? 
Afraid of bullets! Pshaw!” The point was 
properly rewarded with a roar of laughter.^ 

Judge Timms clattered into town about ten 
o’clock, with Kerry at his side. They had been 
having good sport, but the worthy judge, of course, 
had lost no time in responding to the summons 
from Annandale. He waved at Tom and shook 
his whip at the father. 

“See you later, Tim — ^you, too, Tom, my boy. 
Just now I want to get this chap arraigned — here 
comes the train in from Blainesville now. I sup- 
pose it has some county officers aboard.” 

His conjecture was correct. There were, in- 
deed, on board that train the county prosecutor 
and two of his staff of detectives. The judge 
arrived at the station in time to meet them and 
drove them rapidly to the jail. Timothy Kerry 
sat in the store listening to his son’s recital of the 
events of the evening and alternately condemning 
the boy for his rashness and praising him for his 
courage and coolness. 

Tom was giving his father details of the results 
of his five days’ tenure of office as a storekeeper, 
when the entrance was darkened by several fig- 
ures. Judge Timms was one of them and with 
76 


The Man-Hunt 


him were two of the men whom the magistrate 
had met at the station. As Timms nodded toward 
Tom, one of the strangers stepped forward. 

“Tom,’’ said the judge, “this is Mr. Whaley, 
the courfty prosecutor.” 

“Thomas Kerry,” began the officer before 
either Tom or his father could speak, “I think 
you will be pleased to know that in assisting in 
the capture of Teddy Crank, alias Mutt Allison, 
alias Albert Reddington, you have rendered the 
county a good turn. He is a well-known bank 
robber and murderer for whom the State has been 
seeking for more than a year — ever since he robbed 
the Pratt Savings Bank and killed the cashier.” 

He paused, looking smilingly at the boy. 

“In fact, the county has wanted him so badly 
that it offered a reward for the man’s capture, 
dead or alive. The amount of the award was in- 
creased six months ago to three thousand dollars, 
and I wish to inform you that you and Amos 
Budd are entitled to share it half and half.” 

Tom’s face paled, then suddenly his lips parted 
in a broad smile. 

“Father!” He turned to Timothy Kerry. 
“You told me you had saved about three hundred 
and fifty dollars toward the mortgage. Now there’s 
the fifteen hundred. The mortage is paid !” 

77 


CHAPTER V 


Tom’s Curves Impress a Minor-League 
Manager 

O F the long arguments between father and 
son, the one declining to consider taking 
Tom’s reward to use in payment of the mortgage, 
the other insisting that he do so, we will say little, 
since the matter involved constant repetition of 
argument — the older man citing the injustice of 
applying money for which Tom had risked his 
life to the paying off of a debt contracted when 
Tom was a little boy, and the son insisting that 
he owed much more than fifteen hundred dollars 
to his father. 

When at the end of a month the check arrived, 
Tom sat down and indorsed it over to Timothy 
Kerry. 

“There can be no argument about it, father,” 
Tom said grimly. “You have sacrificed yourself 
for four years in sending me through the high 
school when most fathers in your position would 
have sent their sons to work, and you’re willing 
to get along without my help for four more years 

78 


Tom’s Curves Impress a Manager 


while I am in college. Now, there is nothing you 
can say at all.^’ 

‘‘That money will give you a terrible lift in 
college, Tom, boy. You don’t realize what it 
will mean to you — and I can get along as Fm 
going.” 

“You can, but you won’t.” Tom’s lips were 
tightly pressed and his father knew there could 
be no more argument. He held out the check. 
“Here, father. From now on you’ll find life just 
a little bit easier, and, by George, to do that for 
you Fd have willingly been killed by that burglar 
chap.” 

Kerry slowly reached out his hand and took the 
check. Then laying it on the desk, his eyes filling 
with tears, he stepped forward and threw his arms 
about his son’s neck, weeping on the big broad 
shoulder. 

The bank directors had wished to give Tom a 
dinner, and Mr. Middleton had broached the 
subject to him, but Tom characteristically had 
declined, and after a certain space his friends 
came to learn that they could broach the subject 
of the capture of “Teddy” Crank, who had been 
tried and found guilty of murder in the first de- 
dree, only at the risk of incurring Tom’s dis- 
pleasure. 


79 


The Fullback 


One day, early in March — one of those pre- 
maturely balmy days when the bluebirds make 
bold to appear on hill and meadow, and the 
skies are filled with fleecy clouds — a man met 
Tom on the school ground as he was bound to the 
store from the afternoon session. He was a 
stocky, alert individual with keen gray eyes 
and bronzed face. 

‘‘Is your name Kerry, Tom Kerry.?*’ he asked. 

Tom, who was inclined to be diffident and short 
with strangers, nodded curtly. 

“Yes, my name is Kerry,” he said, studying the 
stranger. 

“Well,” said the other, “my name is Byrnes, 
Harry Byrnes — I guess you’ve heard of me.” 

“You mean the manager of the Columbus 
American Association Baseball Club?” inquired 
Tom. 

“Yes,” was the reply. “I read in the papers 
last fall about the burglar you beaned, and I put 
your name down in my book. You see, each year 
at this time I run about looking up new material 
for the team, material to try out on our spring 
trip south. They tell me you’re a pretty good 
pitcher.” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Tom shook his head. “I 
suppose I am pretty good — for Annandale.” He 
8o 


Tom’s Curves Impress a Manager 

smiled. “But that’s a big way from a class AA 
league outfit.” 

The man smiled. He opened a satchel and took 
out a big catcher’s mitt and a shining new league 
ball. 

“It’s a nice day,” he said, “and a bit of exer- 
cise wouldn’t hurt either of us. Do you mind 
pitching me a few — ^just to see what you’ve got ?” 

Tom nodded. 

“I’m perfectly willing to pitch to you,” he 
smiled, “but if you’re looking for anything great 
you won’t find it.” 

“Not looking for greatness; I’m looking for 
promise,” returned the manager. “ I don’t usually 
find even that, so don’t worry about my being dis- 
appointed.” 

“All right.” Tom led the way behind the 
brick building where a backstop of netting had 
just been erected, and took off his coat. “Will 
you call what you want he asked. 

“No, you tell me,” suggested the man, donning 
the glove and settling himself in receiving position. 
A thrill went through Tom, for he recalled Byrnes 
in his playing days as a famous catcher for the 
Giants of New York. He had been practising 
throughout most of the late winter, and as a con- 
sequence knew that he could do himself justice. 

8i 


The Fullback 


‘‘Here’s an out,” he said. He wound up and 
the ball flew to the catcher, making a wide round- 
house curve about five feet in front of the big mitt. 

“All right.” Byrnes tossed the ball back. 
“Of course, that’s all right for school. But curves, 
especially out-curves, don’t work in fast company. 
It’s all breaks and shoots. Let’s see your in.” 

Tom set his teeth and, gripping the ball so that 
it would shoot out from under instead of over 
his forefinger, sent it away with a vicious snap. 
He knew it was good, for he could see it break 
directly in front of the catcher. But the man 
tossed it back without comment. 

“Try it again.” Tom repeated the throw. 

“You’re getting an in-drop there, do you know 
it?” asked Byrnes. 

“Certainly. That’s what I intended,” Tom re- 
plied. 

“Fine. Now, what else have you got?” 

Tom threw his out-drop several times, and then, 
seizing the ball just under the trade-mark and 
across the seams, he threw his fast ball, the one 
that had laid Teddy Crank low. It went to the 
receiver with a whistle, giving a slight hop up- 
ward as it approached the mitt, which, as a matter 
of fact, did not retain the sphere. It glanced up- 
ward and flew far back of the catcher. 

82 


Tom’s Curves Impress a Manager 

Byrnes, without turning to retrieve it, glanced 
at Tom with a grin. 

‘‘You put one over on me then. I didn’t think 
you had it.” He ran to the ball and threw it to 
Tom. “Let’s have it again.” 

Tom agreeably duplicated the previous pitch 
and Byrnes caught it gracefully. 

“It does hook in, kid,” he chuckled. “Well, 
that’ll be enough.” As Tom put on his coat, 
Byrnes said abruptly: 

“How would you like to go South with our 
nine ? I can say you’d make good in your first 
season at Columbus, with a little coaching, that 
is — ” He paused. “And in your second or third 
season, kid, you’d be making good in big company. 
You could have your choice of the National or 
American Leagues. What do you say?” 

Tom shook his head. 

“I don’t want to go into professional baseball. 
I am going to college, and after that I’m going 
into law.” 

“I see.” The manager, who had dealt with 
young athletes before, nodded. “Well, anyway, 
perhaps sometime when we get back from our 
trip you’d like to come up and practise with us, 
and sit on the bench at one of the games.” 

Tom replied that he certainly would. 

83 


The Fullback 


‘‘All right, ril let you know.” He thrust out 
his hand in crisp, businesslike manner, and then 
took his departure for the station. “Get him!” 
he muttered to himself. “You bet Til get him. 
He’s one of the best IVe struck in a long time.” 
This was not an empty boast. At least Byrnes 
had reason to believe in the efficacy of substan- 
tial contracts when waved under the nose of 
budding baseball talent. They never wanted to 
be professionals that is, boys of Tom’s sort didn’t. 
But the money usually told in the end, especially 
when back of it all there lay the glimmering pros- 
pective of Shibe Park, the Polo Grounds, Forbes 
Field, and other seats of the mighty. 

But Tom, who had merely regarded the incident 
as an interesting experience, and who naturally 
valued the praise of the former big league star, 
did not give the incident much thought. Life 
held too much for him. 

In the first place he was radiantly happy at 
the change which had come over his father with 
the paying off of the mortgage. Now, Kerry felt 
he could afford to hire an assistant, a young woman 
of the village, and this gave both him and Tom 
greater leisure than they ever before had pos- 
sessed. Then there was a dance given by Louise 
Middleton, at which in deference to Tom and 
84 


Tom’s Curves Impress a Manager 

one or two other Annandale boys — they were not 
aware of this — it was decreed that formal evening 
attire should not be worn by the men. 

Tom was not especially at ease with girls, but 
Louise Middleton’s tact and generalship that 
evening tempted him out of his diffidence, so 
that he made the most of his slight ability in the 
art of Terpsichore and really had a thoroughly 
enjoyable evening. Looking at the radiant Miss 
Middleton in her evening gown, her shining 
coiffure, her gleaming neck and arms, Tom some- 
how felt her to be a different person, a being too 
far above him even to be approached, and it was 
not in fact until she came to him that the spell 
she had cast was partially broken. 

‘‘Well, sir,” she said, smiling, “you haven’t 
asked me to dance, you know. Aren’t you going 
to.? Have I offended you.?” 

Tom stammered and stuttered, arose and said, 
of course, he was crazy to dance with her, but 
that he had turned his ankle and was afraid — 
He had proceeded thus far when her derisive voice 
interrupted. 

“Turned your ankle ! Yes, it would appear 
so, the way you were skipping about just now 
with Stella May. Oh, well — ” She shrugged and 
was turning away when Tom stepped briskly to 

85 


The Fullback 


her side. The next instant they were whirling 
about the room, Tom holding her as gingerly as 
though she were a creature of Pompeian glass, 
wondering all the while at his temerity in daring 
to lay hands upon a being so superbly unearthly. 

Equally enjoyable and still more interesting 
was the annual smoker of the Haledon Alumni 
Association of Northern Ohio to which Tom was 
invited as the guest of Enoch Chase. It was the 
first Tom had heard of Chase since he and War- 
burton had visited Annandale in the fall. The 
letter enclosed railroad tickets to and from, and 
contained the information that Chase would meet 
him at the station in his motor. The smoker was 
to be on a Saturday night and Tom, taking an 
early afternoon train, was met at Columbus by 
his host in accordance with arrangement. 

Chase took Tom around to his home where he 
met Mrs. Chase and her two children, a boy and 
a girl, who at once were strongly attracted to him 
— as children always were. He was impressed 
by the home and by the relations between hus- 
band and wife, who struck him as two pals. Mrs. 
Chase knew as much about athletics of all sorts as 
her husband and found a lively interest in talking 
to the young athlete and drawing him out along 
many lines. 


86 


Tom’s Curves Impress a Manager 

‘‘I shall expect to hear of you when you get to 
Haledon, Mr. Kerry/’ she said in parting. ‘‘Mr. 
Chase told me of the sacrifice you are going to 
make to get there and I honor you for it.” 

Tom nodded, not knowing what to say, and 
after a farewell tussle with the two children he 
followed Chase out of the house. 

The grill room of the University Club was 
crowded with men young and old when Tom and 
Chase entered. Some were in evening dress and 
some were not. A long table ran down the middle 
of the room and at the head was a cross-table for 
the speakers. In the centre sat the president of 
the university, who was touring the Middle West, 
and two down at his right sat the famous football 
coach, who had come from the East expressly to 
speak at this function. There was a great deal of 
hand-shaking and slapping of backs and calling 
of nicknames. 

“Hello, Stubby,” cried rather a carelessly 
dressed man, coming up to Chase and throwing 
an arm about his shoulder. “How are you ?” 

Chase, turning quickly, embraced the fellow 
and the two swayed up and down the room locked 
in each other’s arms. There were all sorts of 
friendly manifestations like this, and Tom ob- 
served them in some amazement. This was 

87 


The Fullback 


natural, because Tom Kerry had yet to partake 
of the waters of that great well-spring which es- 
tablishes a spell of comradeship and manly 
sentiment that lasts until memory of student 
years is obliterated. 

A grave and reverend doctor of divinity, intro- 
duced as Seagreaves, ’71, invoked the divine bless- 
ing, and then the table resolved itself into a rapid- 
fire battery of laughter and jovial conversation 
as the dinner was served. Between courses songs 
of the old college days were sung with a tuneful 
vigor that was uplifting. One song that Tom 
liked especially was a medley of old airs beginning 
with “IVe been Working on the Railroad’’ and 
ending with “Down in Mobile.” Then there 
were loud calls for “Slugger” Simms, and a 
wizened little man, with a preposterously com- 
ical face, arose and sang “Willy the Weeper,” a 
nonsensical ballad which amused Tom mightily 
and seemed to amuse every one else. Then the 
president arose and spoke in serious vein, setting 
forth the present status of Haledon and the needs 
of the future. He was followed by many alumni, 
men gifted either in the art of oratory, of anec- 
dote, or of song. 

At the end of the chorus he took his stand at 
the head of the table and, waving his hands, 
88 


Tom’s Curves Impress a Manager 

Started Haledon’s famous song to the classes, the 
representative of each class rising in turn. They 
began with ’68: 

‘‘We’ll drink a health to ’68; 

Her health we’ll drink in generous wine. 

We’ll drink a health to ’68; 

A health to all her glorious line, 

And a hip, hip, hip hooray.” 

So the song swept on to ’70 and ’76 and ’80 
and ’84, and so on down to the more recent classes 
whose members were at the smoker until Tom 
wished that he, too, could arise and stand proudly 
while the chorus of voices went up to his class — 
but that lay in the future. Then every one arose 
and after a preliminary chord from the piano the 
company swept into that solemn anthem, ‘‘Hale- 
don.” 

It was splendid and Tom felt it, but what he 
did not feel was that overmastering thrill which 
the boy with Haledon blood flowing in his veins 
would have caught — the depths of devotion, the 
unreasoning love, the undying spirit of youthful 
loyalty which Haledon inspired in her sons and 
which was here manifest. Some impression of 
what it all meant came to Tom, particularly when 
they were singing to the various classes, when 

89 


The Fullback 


they lifted their voices in ‘‘Haledon/’ but it was 
only an impression, soon to be dissipated. 

The phases of the smoker which caught Tom 
most were the speech of the football coach and 
the football reminiscences of gladiators of the 
near and remote past who were called upon from 
time to time. Chase, who watched his guest 
closely throughout the evening, understood per- 
fectly, and when he had taken Tom to the train 
and had returned to his wife, he summed up his 
reading of Tom Kerry with a shake of his head. 

‘‘Tom is an introspective chap, and he is think- 
ing not so much what he will give Haledon as 
what he will get out of her. That’s all well enough, 
and he’ll probably give Haledon adequate return 
for what he receives. But the point is he may 
never realize this, may never know there is any 
bargain. He lacks tradition, lacks Haledon 
blood — ^you understand what I mean.” 

“Well,” laughed Mrs. Chase, “he will probably 
be able to live without that. Others do. And he’s 
a perfect corker, I think,” she added. 

“Oh, I know,” exclaimed Chase. “I was think- 
ing merely of Tom, not of Haledon. I should like 
to see him get everything that’s coming to him 
out of his college career — spirit as well as more 
solid things.” 


90 


Tom’s Curves Impress a Manager 

Mrs. Chase remarked her conviction that Tom 
would, and the discussion drifted to other things. 

Tom, in the meanwhile, occupied the time con- 
sumed in the journey to Annandale in going over 
the various incidents of the dinner, smiling, spec- 
ulating, wondering. He recalled one diner whom 
every one had literally badgered into telling a 
story of a certain incident which occurred in 
the course of a trip of the glee club many years 
before. He had undoubtedly told it at every 
dinner of the association. In fact, when he 
reluctantly arose he said that he had; none the 
less, he was forced to ‘‘oblige.’’ And every one 
writhed in laughter and applauded as though the 
story were brand-new. So with certain songs and 
other stories. If they were so old, thought Tom, 
why were they so desirable ? Of course, he had 
enjoyed them, but then they were new to him. 
And one man, at whose occasional dry remarks 
every one roared, struck Tom as being a sort of 
conceited ass, although, as he recalled, this man’s 
suggestion, that a phonograph be placed in the 
furnace so that by turning on the registers music 
could be heard in every room, was funny enough. 

But the principal result which Chase had hoped 
to obtain was brought about. The smoker gave 
Tom a feeling of relation to Haledon which he 

91 


The Fullback 


had not before possessed, and the idea of his going 
there became concrete and alive rather than a 
vague future prospect in which his education was 
the main thing and the institution supplying it 
little or nothing. 

The weeks wore on. Tom was interested in 
the professional baseball situation, as well as in 
the games of his own team. As a pitcher he had 
first begun to gain local fame the previous year 
merely through the fact that at last a catcher 
who could hold him had been developed. His 
reputation had secured for him many opportu- 
nities to pitch for strong amateur teams of the 
county, and this season Blainesville had made 
him an offer to pitch two games a week at ten 
dollars a game. Tom, of course, had refused. 

In the middle of April the Blainesville team, 
which had been training in the southern part of 
the State for its State League season, returned 
home and the manager was sufficiently fortunate 
to arrange a Saturday contest with the Columbus 
American Association nine, which was barnstorm- 
ing its way home from a spring sojourn in Ken- 
tucky. 

Curiously enough, Tom received two letters the 
Friday before the game. One was from Byrnes, 
the Columbus manager, to whom, as will be re- 
92 


Tom’s Curves Impress a Manager 

membered Tom had pitched a month before, and 
another from Mertz, manager of the Blainesville 
team. Byrnes merely enclosed a written order to 
admit Tom to the game, adding in a brief note that 
he would like to have Tom look him up. Mertz’s 
letter was longer. He thought it would be nice 
if Tom would bring along his uniform and sit on 
the bench with his team. 

“It will be a nice little experience for you,” 
he said, “and I should certainly like to have you 
come along.” 

Tom decided to do so, as he had never seen a 
team of the class of Columbus in action. On that 
nine, as he knew, were at least two men who were 
headed for the big league and two more who had 
been shining stars in major company and were 
now beginning to slip back. Generally speaking, 
it was a fine, all-round professional ball club. 

The ball-grounds were located on the outskirts 
of Blainesville and were rather imposing, the city 
being, to fall into the parlance of the sport, “a 
very hot ball town.” Tom, who had been warned 
by many guests at the Haledon smoker to be 
most circumspect concerning his amateur stand- 
ing, being reminded that. a promising university 
athlete, like Caesar’s wife, must be above sus- 
picion, told no one but his father of his intended 
93 


The Fullback 


journey to Blainesville. He had no special reason 
for secrecy, except that somehow the fact that he 
was to appear in uniform in a professional league 
park appealed to him as liable to create a bad 
impression. If he had regarded it as unethical 
he would never have gone, and, as a matter of 
fact, it was not so; none the less, it was rather a 
hazardous proceeding — particularly in view of 
events that attended it. 

There was a great outpouring for the game and 
Tom, his suitcase in hand, was lost in the crowd 
which gathered before the ticket-office. At 
length, looking about, he saw a small door to 
one side with the legend, ‘‘Players’ Entrance.” 
To this Tom went and was at once admitted. 
He stepped directly into the arms of Mertz, in 
fact. 

“All right, Kerry,” he said, when Tom had 
made his identity known. “I was looking for 
you. Come on into the dressing-room and I’ll 
introduce you to the boys.” 

Tom followed him across the outfield to a 
little building from which sounded many voices 
and a great deal of laughter. It was the Blaines- 
ville nine engaged in dressing for the preliminary 
practise. 


94 


CHAPTER VI 


Five Innings Against Columbus 

T om found the players to be a clean-cut lot 
of young fellows, most of them little, if any, 
older than himself. Their faces were bronzed 
and their eyes clear; their talk indicated that 
they were seriously engaged in baseball as a pro- 
fession, with ambition to rise through the various 
gradations of the organized game. 

They came from all parts of the country. 
Tom was interested to observe that while all dis- 
played the intersectional characteristics, yet, im- 
mersed in a common sport with all its peculiar 
jargon and habit of mind, they were really of one 
type. 

“Boys,” said the manager, “this is Tom Kerry, 
from Annandale, near here. He’s a pitcher.” 

They all nodded and went on with their dress- 
ing, while Mertz went into the next room, where 
the Columbus team was, to talk to Byrnes. 

“Has the old man signed you I mean, is he 
going to try you out.?” asked a wiry, lean-faced 
player who happened to be next to Tom. Several 
95 


The Fullback 

Others looked up with interest as the newcomer 
made his reply. 

‘‘No/’ said Tom, “he merely asked me to come 
and practise with you and sit on, the bench during 
the game for the experience.” 

“Then I guess he has his eye on you.” 

Tom shook his head. 

“No, he knows Tm not going in for profes- 
sional baseball. Tm going to college.” 

“What difference does that make?” asked the 
man who had first spoken. “Ahearn had ’em all 
whiffing when he played for Wyandotte College 
last year — he’s with ’em again this year. He 
passed two summers down in the Tri-State League 
when I was playing there.” 

“I don’t see how he could play for Wyandotte 
then,” returned Tom. 

“Oh,” laughed the other, “he plays on the 
league under the name of Mulligan. I know two 
or three men the same way. A fellow has to make 
a living,” he added, a bit defiantly as Tom’s face 
revealed something akin to repugnance, “even if 
he is getting an education.” 

Not caring to enter upon the discussion of a 
matter so delicate, Tom merely nodded and said 
nothing. 

As they trooped out onto the field with the 

96 


Five Innings Against Columbus 

balls and paraphernalia, the sunlight shining 
brightly on the new green grass, and the small 
grand stand and bleachers comfortably filled with 
fans, Tom could feel something of the lure of the 
calling in which these men were engaged. The 
lean-faced player at his elbow voiced it when he 
turned to Tom with a chuckle. 

“Think of taking eighteen dollars a week for 
this ! Just coming out here every afternoon and 
playing ball 1 Gee ! Sometimes I feel as though 
I ought to pay the club for the pleasure.’’ 

Tom shrugged and picked up a ball which had 
bounded to his feet from the home-plate, where 
the Columbus team were engaged in batting prac- 
tise. He tossed it to an outfielder and then ad- 
dressed his companion. 

“What do you do in winter?” 

“I don’t do much, steady,” was the reply. “I’m 
a carpenter by trade and sometimes there’s work 
and sometimes there isn’t. What I want to do is 
to get a reputation, play on a club in some main- 
line city and start a pool-room on the side — pool 
and billiards, you know. That’s what McGraw 
did in New York, and, in fact, lots of others have 
done it. Meanwhile,” he concluded, “I love the 
game and any one who doesn’t never could make 
good at it.” 


97 


The Fullback 


This man’s play In the game that followed — 
he was the third-baseman — impressed Tom with 
the opinion that his facility in baseball was as 
great as his fondness for the sport. He watched 
the Columbus fielders with Interest and was im- 
pressed by the fine things they did with so little 
expenditure of effort — ^this, In fact, was his first 
impression of professional players In action. 

The Columbus players had a batting-cage back 
of the plate and were sending the offerings of a 
pitcher flying in all directions. With the excep- 
tion of two or three men, whose browned, seamed 
faces indicated the accumulation of years, the 
players were hardly less youthful than their com- 
patriots of the Blainesville nine, who, arranging 
themselves near the grand stand, began to toss 
baseballs to one another. 

When the local team, amid resounding cheers, 
took their positions for fielding practise, two of 
the Blainesville pitchers began to warm up with 
their catchers. Mertz came to Tom, who was 
seated on the bench watching operations. 

‘‘Want to toss a few,” he said, and as Tom 
nodded his willingness the manager called to the 
regular catcher. “Come here, Aleck,” he said, 
“and take a few from Kerry. You’re not going to 
work to-day, Higgins,” he added, gesturing to- 
98 


Five Innings Against Columbus 

ward the pitcher whom Tom was to relieve. 
don’t want to take any chances on your arm 
yet.” 

So Tom took up a position and, with Mertz 
at his shoulder, proceeded to display his v/ares. 
After two or three pitches the catcher raised his 
head and glanced significantly at his manager. 
The manager winked back. Nothing was said. 
When the gong rang for the game to begin Tom 
resumed his seat on the bench, his shoulder 
tingling from a rousing slap bestowed by Mertz. 

‘‘You’ve certainly got something, kid,” he said, 
and then stopped to speak to Byrnes, who was 
striding over toward the Blainesville bench. The 
Columbus manager ignored all the other players, 
who were leaving their seats to take the field, 
and shook hands with Tom. 

“I’m glad to see you again, Kerry,” he began 
with gruff effusiveness. ‘‘Only you’re on the 
wrong bench. Now, don’t let Mertz put over 
anything on you; remember when you get ready 
to talk business you come up to Columbus and 
see me, understand?” 

Tom said he was still of the same mind about 
professional baseball, but that if he ever had reason 
to change it he most certainly would give Byrnes 
the first opportunity to secure his services. Pri- 
99 


The Fullback 


vately, he could not quite understand how these 
men could be so eager to obtain the services of a 
pitcher of whose ability they had been able to 
judge only through balls thrown into a catcher’s 
mitt. He had faced no batter. If he had, per- 
haps his assortment of curves and breaks would 
not have seemed so impressive. However, it was 
all flattering and Tom was sufficiently human to 
enjoy it. At least their good opinions would give 
him courage when he came out for the university 
nine. 

The game began with Columbus at the bat. 
Blainesville’s best pitcher, Preston, was in the 
box for the locals. The visitors perished on two 
outfield flies and a grounder to second. Blaines- 
ville went out in order and then Columbus came 
to the bat for the first half of the second. The 
team scored no runs, but two screaming outfield 
liners, which were just nipped by the agile guard- 
ians of Blainesville’s outer precincts, hinted to 
the discerning that it would be but a matter of 
time when the American Association sluggers 
would begin to find the ball for hits. 

This occurred, as a matter of fact, in the fourth 
inning, just as the local rooters had begun to 
hope that eventually their batters would come 
to Preston’s assistance and win the game. The 
loo 


Five Innings Against Columbus 

first man up in this inning knocked a grounder 
to third; it was too hot to handle, and the batter 
reached first safely. The second man knocked a 
long fly to left, the man on first taking second 
as the fly was caught. Then came a three-bagger. 
When the third out had been made Columbus 
had tallied four runs. Blainesville could do noth- 
ing in their half and a recruit pitcher from the 
South was sent to the box in Preston’s place. 

The first man up knocked a three-bagger and 
the next two received bases on balls. The un- 
fortunate pitcher looked toward the bench and 
caught the dire summons from the manager. 
Throwing down the ball, he walked slowly to the 
dugout. Mertz gazed for a moment at the man 
of whose arm he had expressed solicitude before 
the game. 

‘‘Wing’s pretty bad, isn’t it, Higgins?” he 
asked. 

The pitcher grinned and arose. 

“Oh, it’ll go for five innings, all right,” he re- 
plied, but Mertz shook his head. 

“No, if you put it on the bum now it’ll last all 
season.” He turned suddenly to Tom. “Kerry,” 
he said, “how would you like to go out there ?” 

Tom flushed. He did not see how he could do 
much worse than his predecessors, and yet the 


lOI 


The Fullback 


idea of his pitching against an American Associa- 
tion team, and with three men on base and no 
outs into the bargain, was really appalling. 

‘‘I don’t know,” was his dubious answer. ‘‘Fm 
— I’m an amateur, you know.” 

Mertz, construing ‘‘amateur” in the sense 
merely of ability, shook his head. “Oh, you’ll be 
all right. Go on out there and give them a whirl. 
There’s no harm done whatever happens.” 

Tom, who, after all, had the fighting spirit, 
found the temptation growing upon him, and at 
length as the umpire came to the bench with in- 
quiring face he arose and pulled off his sweater. 

“What name?” asked the arbiter of play. 

Tom, with not a thought other than that of 
concealing his adventure from good friends in 
Annandale who might not like the idea of his 
playing ball on a professional team, spoke care- 
lessly to the man, and it was not until he heard 
the umpire’s booming voice announcing the change 
that he realized the name he had given. 

“Dulane now pitching for Blainesville.” Tom 
started as he heard his mother’s family name, and 
then walked into the box. He had never before 
faced such a crowd. In stand and bleacher there 
were easily five thousand spectators, and the 
chattering of the Columbus coachers was inces- 


102 


Five Innings Against Columbus 

sant. But Tom Kerry was blessed with a cool 
head, and more, he believed in himself. This is 
not to say he had an exalted idea as to his ability; 
but he had a certain moral sustaining force which 
always helped him in such situations. He would 
do the very best he could and if that best was 
not sufficient unto his needs, why, then he would 
take his medicine. In his high-school uniform he 
looked boyish despite his build as he stood facing 
the bronzed huskies of Columbus. 

He glanced at the bases. Each bag was oc- 
cupied and each funner lay about five feet down 
the paths ready to break and run at the first 
crack of the bat, provided, of course, it was not 
a fly. Tom assuredly had been called upon to 
face a forlorn hope. The catcher, who had met 
him in mid-diamond, had whispered a few simple 
signals, and now the stocky receiver was crouched 
behind the bat, grinning encouragingly through 
his mask. 

‘‘Now, old boy, let’s have it,” he croaked. 
“It’s the first time these guys have been up 
against any class. What do you say ? What do 
you say ?” 

Tom was rather amused at the oratory. At 
the plate, swinging his bat, stood “Rube” 
Saunders, who five years before had led the Amer- 
103 


The Fullback 


lean League m batting and last season had hit 
for .370 in the American Association. There was 
common talk that he was making a ‘‘come-back’’ 
and would resume his place in the big league next 
year. He had a broad, good-humored face, and 
the keen blue eyes of a sharpshooter. The pitcher 
was instantaneously struck with the absurdity of 
his attempting to oppose the mighty “Rube.” 
But the combative instinct intervened. If Saun- 
ders were going to knock the cover off the ball he 
might as well do it on the best Tom had as on the 
worst. In other words, the boy decided to make 
Saunders work for his forthcoming clean-up hit. 
Forthwith he laid his plan. The catcher, Ryan, 
had signalled for an outdrop, but Tom shook his 
head. Ryan chuckled. 

“A’ right, boy, a’ right. All y’ got to do is to put 
it where you want, and I’ll get it. Come on now.” 

Tom' wound up and threw the ball straight at 
the veteran’s head. It went with a bang, with- 
out the semblance of a curve. Saunders lurched 
quickly back, while the ball, its speed miscal- 
culated by Ryan, bounded from his mitt, luckily 
in front of the plate. 

“The kid’s got smoke, but he’s wild,” muttered 
Saunders to Ryan as they prepared for the next 
ball. 

104 


Five Innings Against Columbus 

‘‘A’right, boy.’’ Ryan again settled himself 
and signalled for a drop. Tom nodded and sent 
the ball whizzing — again straight at Saunders’s 
head, who lost no time in repeating his backward 
leap. But curiously enough the ball a few feet 
from the plate broke suddenly outward and 
downward, sweeping over the rubber as cleanly as 
the most exacting umpire could ask. 

As the wailing cry of ‘^streee-eeck” echoed 
about the enclosure, Saunders glanced at Tom 
with an injured expression, which was somewhat 
heightened by Ryan’s derisive laughter. 

“So we caught the big fellow on a bush trick, 
eh!” the receiver exulted. “A’right. Come on 
now, boy. Give it to me.” 

Saunders settled himself for a mighty wallop. 
Evidently the kid had a swift ball and a break. 
Well, he’d see about that. As for Tom, thankful 
to have got away with his initial strategy, he stood 
in the box, thinking deeply. This really was what 
appealed to him in baseball, particularly in pitch- 
ing — the necessity for constant thinking and 
scheming. The present problem was so thor- 
oughly exhilarating and absorbing that not a 
thought of Saunders’s prowess was in his mind. 
His mind was wholly engaged in the scheme of 
offsetting that prowess. 

105 


The Fullback 


He had been practising for a year on a slow 
ball, which had been described in a book on base- 
ball owned and treasured by Tom. The ball is 
held in all the fingers, but only the thumb and 
little finger grip it tightly. The first, second, and 
third digits merely rest on the ball. With the 
sphere thus held it is possible to go through every 
motion attending the delivery of a fast ball and 
yet have it float up to the plate. 

So with Tom. Winding up with a vigorous 
motion, his face revealing the mustering of great 
physical effort, he let the ball go from over his 
head. Saunders, who had set himself for his in- 
tended home-run, his mind attuned for a hurtling 
ball, did not catch the deception — as it was in- 
tended he should not — until the ball was half-way 
to the plate, whereupon, gathering himself to- 
gether, he attempted to take a toe-hold and 
knock the floater out of the lot. But he was too 
early. His bat described a vicious sweep a frac- 
tion of an instant before the spheroid was within 
hitting distance, and the umpire’s mournful 
‘‘streee-eeck !” rose upon the air. 

Ryan sat upon the ground and held his head, 
realizing that if he could “get the batter’s goat,” 
the chances of striking him out would be ma- 
terially improved. It may be said that so far as 
io6 


Five Innings Against Columbus 

inciting Saunders to anger was concerned he was 
abetted, not to say aided, by the members of the 
batter’s own team, whose guffaws and gibes from 
the bench were peculiarly irritating. 

Ryan, who knew that Saunders, above all 
things, desired a fast ball or an inshoot, preferably 
above his waist, signalled for a low out, and this 
Tom threw without hesitation. Saunders, as 
Ryan had suspected, did not like the ball, and 
besides, as it broke outward, it gave promise of 
missing the plate. Tom believed that it did, but 
the umpire, who had his eye on the corner, jerked 
his thumb over his shoulder. 

‘‘Y’r out!” he bawled. 

“What!” Saunders threw his bat upon the 
ground, and then similarly disposed of his hat. 
“Say ! Where’d you come from, you bush-league 
ump .? Missed that one, did you f What d’ye 
see with, your feet ? You couldn’t see a hay- 
stack in a half-acre lot. Rats!” As the umpire 
turned away in dignified, statuesque silence, 
Saunders followed him, while his comrades filled 
the air with ironic cries. Then the discomfited 
batter, coming close to the arbiter and placing 
his hand to his mouth, muttered that mystic 
something which always with umpires appears 
to be the very last insult. 

107 


The Fullback 


Whipping ofF his mask, he waved his arm com- 
prehensively toward the bench. 

“Get out of the game!'’ he roared. Saunders, 
now at high pitch, was bent upon making his de- 
parture from the afternoon's pastime memorable 
to his enemy, when the captain and manager of 
the Columbus team appeared and led the man to 
the bench. And Tom, who had been an inter- 
ested observer of the episode and, as a matter of 
fact, a little inclined to sympathize with the 
batter, turned his attention to the next man. 

He used his fast ball, his high in, and his change 
of pace throughout the remainder of the contest, 
and gave Columbus just three hits, which yielded 
the team no runs, while through a two-bagger in 
the eighth inning Tom had the honor of driving 
in Blainesville's lone tally. 

As he walked from the field after the game, the 
crowd still cheering his remarkable performance, 
Tom noticed Saunders making toward him. But 
the Columbus player fell a bit behind as he saw 
the two managers come up to the young pitcher. 

“Kerry," began Byrnes, thrusting out his hand, 
“I guess you'll believe after this that I know a 
pitcher when I see one. Now, you listen to me: 
you'll make the biggest mistake of your life if 
you pass up the game for college. I'll start you 
io8 


Five Innings Against Columbus 

with twenty-five hundred a year and Til bet you 
five hundred dollars to three hundred that inside 
of three years you’re playing in big company at 
nothing less than five or six thousand a yean” 

Mertz laughed. 

‘‘You go to it, Tom. Byrnes has got more 
money than I have. By the way, I want to give 
you something for this game. Here’s fifteen dol- 
lars.” But Tom backed away from the proffered 
bills. 

“No, thanks. I pitched just for fun, and I got 
full value. I’m glad to have had the experience. 
But I don’t want any money.” 

“Don’t be a jay — ^who’ll know the difference ?” 
urged the manager. But Tom was firm. 

“Just the same, I don’t want it, and I won’t 
take it.” Tom’s voice rose a trifle. “Nor do I 
want the expense money you spoke of. I’m much 
obliged, Mr. Mertz, but I’m perfectly satisfied as 
things stand.” 

“Oh, all right.” Mertz replaced the money 
with an aggrieved air, while Byrnes renewed his 
offer. 

“You can have a contract in ten minutes for 
twenty-five hundred,” he resumed. 

“I thank you, too, Mr. Byrnes, and if I change 
my mind I’ll let you know. But just now I’m 
109 


The Fullback 


going to do as I told you — Fm going to college, 
and I m going clean/’ 

Byrnes took it good-naturedly, slapping Tom on 
the shoulder and saying that if conditions ever 
arose to make him feel differently he must re- 
member that the offer held good. 

‘‘Thank you.” Tom waved his hand as the 
two managers turned away and was about to 
run to the dressing-room when he heard his name 
and, looking back, saw “Rube” Saunders almost 
at his shoulder. 

“Kid,” he grinned, “I want to hand it to you 
on your pitching. Although,” he added, “I cal- 
culate Td a got to you if that fresh ump hadn’t 
tied the can onto me.” 

“I don’t doubt it, Mr. Saunders,” Tom re- 
sponded frankly. 

“But that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you 
about,” resumed the veteran. “I saw those two 
managers talking to you and saw Mertz try to 
make you take some money. You take it from 
me, stick to the way you’re goin’. I know your 
kind. You’re a clean, bright, young feller, lookin’ 
for an education and then a business out in the 
world where you can make somethin’ of your- 
self. You stick; catch it.?” 

“You mean keep out of professional ball?” 
no 



“ I certainly thank you, Mr. Saunders.” 




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Five Innings Against Columbus 

Tom gazed curiously at this big, lithe man with 
his strongly marked face and glowing black eyes. 

‘‘Yes, that’s what I mean. Now, me; I never 
had any education, and I began fence bustin’ 
early in life.” He paused. “And I’m goin’ to do 
some more in big company next year, because — 
well, because I’ve let the booze alone. There’s 
still a year or two of the spangles left for me, even 
if I am an old man. (He was thirty-six.) But 
you. I’ve seen the likes of you come and go. 
You’re good for a while, but you and the rest 
like you all have too fine a grain, and you see 
the joke of all this — ^when it’s too late. There’s 
nothin’ in it for you. You get easy money and 
you think there’s nothin’ to it. But there’s a 
lot to it. There’s many a man I know, son, who 
ought to be a fine lawyer, or a doctor, or some- 
thin’. And where are they all ? They’re down 
and out. They gave all they had and went to 
the junk heap, good for nothin’ but playin’ ball, 
and now they’re not good even for that. Oh, I 
never had an education, but I’ve learned things, 
as I kept my eyes open and watched.” 

Tom, whose eyes had never left the man’s face, 
smiled. “I certainly thank you, Mr. Saunders.” 

“Yes.” Saunders nodded. “I see these col- 
lege boys. They look good and they fall for a big- 

III 


The Fullback 


league offer. Some of ’em makes good, but most 
doesn’t. But whether they do or whether they 
don’t, they are not makin’ good at the thing that 
counts for anything. No, they’re makin’ good, 
or makin’ bad as hall players, and when you come 
down to it a pro ball player is nothin’ more than 
an actor in a big amusement game. That’s what 
professional baseball is, an amusement, a circus. 
You’re great while you’re goin’ good, but when 
you’re goin’ bad, good night!” 

Tom’s deductive mind evolved the theory that 
this was true not only of baseball but of almost 
every phase of life, sport or otherwise; but he 
did not say so, because he regarded — and justly 
— the veteran player’s views as sound. 

‘‘Well,” Tom said, “I’ll remember all you have 
said, not only now but when I’m in college.” 

“So you will,” concluded the other, “and some 
day when you’re a big fellow somewhere you’ll 
come to Rube Saunders’s little beer saloon or 
cigar shop or the cemetery and give me a word of 
thanks.” 

“I’ll do that, too.” Tom shook hands and ran 
across the field to the dressing-room, where the 
cool shower hardly heightened the glow of the 
flattering words addressed to him by his fellow 
players. 


II2 


Five Innings Against Columbus 

And outside the grounds young Gordon Oliver, 
of Pulver Academy, whom Tom had ‘‘punished’’ 
for his slugging activities in the Pulver-Annandale 
game, was entering a touring-car, grinning and 
muttering to a friend: 

“Well, what do you know about that! Tom 
Kerry pitching for Blainesville 1 I wonder how 
much he got ? ” 


CHAPTER VII 


Tom and His Father 
OM was graduated from the Annandale 



JL High School with flying colors, second in a 
class of twelve, which included in its number 
Louise Middleton, who was to enter Vassar in 
the fall. The exercises were held in the church 
on the square with the sunlight of a sleepy June 
day flooding in through the windows and the birds 
twittering incessantly in the vines outside. There 
was a sweet melancholy in the function to Tom. 
As a little boy he had first been taken to this 
school by his mother. Now he was to leave it 
finally. Was his mother there in that church 
listening to his salutatory } Tom would have it 
so; it seemed so fitting, somehow, that she should 
be. At all events, below in one of the front pews 
sat his father, his eyes staring vacantly ahead, as 
though many thoughts were passing through his 


mind. 


Tom fancied he could follow them. His father 
would be pretty much alone in the next four years. 
While Tom was out in the world fighting his fight 


114 


Tom and His Father 


Timothy Kerry would still go mornings to his 
little store and evenings to the little lonely cot- 
tage. Somehow commencement did not hold all 
that sheer joy for Tom which he had expected. 

Next afternoon he pitched his final game for 
Annandale, Pulver being the opponent. The 
academy team made two scratch hits and no 
runs, while Annandale made six, thereby finishing 
a season in which the school nine had not lost a 
game, thanks chiefly to the splendid work of their 
battery. Before he was aware Annandale was 
steeped in summer. The Middletons left for 
Maine, but before they went Mr. Middleton 
dropped into the store with Louise and invited 
Tom to come to their summer place for the month 
of August. 

But Tom shook his head. He had before him 
the necessity of earning money throughout the 
summer and he could not afford the luxury of a 
sojourn by the sea, even had he been willing to 
leave his father, which he was not. 

‘‘Thank you, Mr. Middleton,” he said, “but if 
Fm going to get through college I have to lay 
aside some money. That means work. Mr. 
Atwood has got me a job as superintendent of a 
gang of track laborers on the Annandale spur and 
I have to start in next week.” 

IIS 


The Fullback 


‘‘I think you’re real mean, Tom Kerry,” 
frowned Louise. “Mr. Kerry,” turning to his 
father, “why don’t you make him come. It will 
be just what he needs.” 

Timothy Kerry smiled and shook his head. 

“I’ve done everything that mortal can do to 
beat some sense into his head, but it’s no use. 
When Tom makes up his mind — ” Kerry 
shrugged, and smiled at his son. 

“I think Tom is right, none the less,” Mr. Mid- 
dleton opined. “I often tell Hal that it would be 
the best thing in the world for him if he had to 
bone down as Tom will have to. Take most of 
our great men, and you’ll find they had few enough 
luxuries in their young manhood. It may seem 
hard to Tom, but the mill he’s going through is 
the mill that grinds out successful men. I’m only 
sorry, Tom, I made it harder by putting this 
temptation into your way.” 

“Shush, father!” exclaimed Louise Middleton. 
“I thought you said you wouldn’t take ‘no’ for 
an answer.” 

“Well,” Middleton laughed, “it appears that 
I am in the position of Tom’s father; I have 
to.” 

The next week the Middletons departed, leav- 
ing a great big vacant spot in the village and in 

ii6 


Tom and His Father 


Tom’s life. Hal would be back before it was 
time to go to Haledon and he planned with Tom 
for the trip East. 

‘Ht’ll be bully fun,” he said, '‘and since Fve 
been in Haledon Til take pleasure in guiding you 
about, showing you particularly the football field 
where we can end our Pulver-Annandale rivalry 
and be comrades.” 

Tom’s work on the railroad was arduous, and 
there were times when the hot sunlight — ^which 
the Italian laborers disregarded — seemed likely 
to burn a hole through the top of his head. But 
he was receiving twelve dollars a week and was 
picking up three or four extra dollars every 
week in work about the little roundhouse — groom- 
ing the wheezy locomotive, in other words. He 
left his home early and generally did not return 
until nine o’clock in the evening. He had no 
weight to lose, but he hardened his muscles and 
increased his endurance, until within a month’s 
time he felt himself to be twice the boy he had 
been. 

In the latter part of August his entrance ex- 
amination papers arrived from the Board of Col- 
lege Entrance Examinations, and over these he 
wrestled in the hot little office of Doctor Keeley 
after his hard day on the railroad line. The cur- 
117 


The Fullback 


riculum of the Annandale High School was thor- 
ough and complete, and Tom found, to his great 
satisfaction, that the papers from Haledon im- 
posed no difficulty which he did not feel compe- 
tent to surmount. There was, indeed, not a 
little pleasure in this combat with the profes- 
sorial mind, and the odoriferous office with its 
small table and the dim kerosene-lamp seemed to 
Tom to take on the atmosphere of the cloister. 
Upon each paper four nights successively he 
affixed his bold Q. E. D., walked home in a daze, 
and retired to wake with the sun and drive 
sweating laborers to their tasks. 

At length he finished with the tests, success in 
which was necessary to admission into the clas- 
sical course at Haledon, and sent them East with 
a sigh of satisfaction. 

One morning a letter came to the store, the 
envelope bearing the name of the Annandale 
National Bank. It proved to be from the cashier, 
Mr. Arkwright, who had recovered from his 
wound and was again at his desk. 

‘'Dear Thomas,’’ it read, “at the first meeting 
of the directors which I was able to attend we 
discussed among other subjects your bravery in 
saving the bank a humiliating loss and in assist- 
ing in the apprehension of the burglar. By order 
n8 


Tom and His Father 


of the directors, therefore, I send you a slight 
token of our gratitude.” 

Enclosed was a check for a hundred dollars. 
Tom looked up, flushing, but his father was quick 
to speak. 

‘‘Now don’t be foolish, boy. That money is 
not charity; it’s a recognition for services rendered. 
You’d be a fool not to take it, especially since 
Budd also got a hundred dollars. It will give you 
a chance to quit that work on the railroad and to 
prepare for your life in the East. You can get a 
few clothes, too; you need them.” 

Tom’s desire was to turn this money over to 
his father also, as he was now filled with the idea 
of fortifying himself financially by the labor of 
his own hands. But he knew what his father 
would say; while, again, he had really earned this 
money. And, as it was now the middle of August, 
he did really wish a little time to be with his 
father and calmly and quietly arrange for his 
departure to Haledon. 

So, without difficulty, he terminated his em- 
ployment with the railroad and spent the last 
two weeks of the fetid month in attending to the 
many little details that cropped up from day to 
day. Toward the last of the month the Middle- 
tons returned home, sun-browned and full of plans 
119 


The Fullback 


for the future. Louise had spent several days 
shopping in New York and she and her mother 
were so busy with the dressmaker that other 
members of the family saw them only at meals. 
Hal, who had delayed his examinations, was en- 
grossed in the perplexing problems set before 
him and envied Tom, who now had little to do 
but sit idly about the store or under the trees at 
the cottage. 

He developed a tendency to visiting the old 
haunts, the creek where he had learned to swim, 
the trees where he had gathered nuts, the houses 
of friends who from now on would begin to be 
chiefly of importance only in memory. He spent, 
too, a great deal of time with his father in the 
cottage and at the store. 

Of baseball he thought little and played less. 
Not that offers were not frequent. Byrnes had 
written him two importunate letters — his pitchers 
were not going well and Columbus was trailing 
in the ruck — and Mertz had once run up from 
Blainesville to see how the land lay. To neither 
man did Tom hold out the slightest encourage- 
ment. In fact, viewing the labor lying ahead, 
baseball and, forsooth, all other sports, including 
football, seemed hardly worth his attention. He 
was a very intense boy, and his thoughts were 


120 


Tom and His Father 

inclined to centre upon one thing. Managers of 
amateur, or rather semiprofessional, nines fre- 
quently wrote to him, offering him from ten to 
fifteen dollars a game for Saturday or Sunday 
pitching, but he did not even take the trouble 
to answer them. Somehow he regarded the prop- 
ositions as insulting. 

Hal ran into the store one afternoon a day or 
two before the time came to leave for Haledon 
with the joyous announcement that he, too, had 
successfully passed his entrance examination. 

‘‘Without a condition,’’ he exulted. “Now, 
Tom, I tell you we’ll be free to enjoy our college 
year.” 

Mr. Middleton, who had dropped into the 
store for a magazine, heard the remark, and going 
out, accompanied by his son, he paused at the 
curb, his hand upon his motor-car. 

“Hal,” he said, “have you ever realized that 
you and Tom are going to lead different sorts of 
lives at Haledon ? You know we have got to be 
a big university down there and the students 
split up into cults and cliques. You will have 
money — too much I’m afraid, while Tom will 
have to work for everything he gets.” 

“Well Hal looked at his father curiously. 

“Well,” pursued the man, “although you may 
I2I 


The Fullback 


not realize it, this will mean a certain amount of 
separation between you and Tom. Oh,” he went 
on, raising his hand to check his son’s expos- 
tulation, “you uiay not think so, and I know your 
heart is in the right place; I am merely telling 
you what is going to happen. It will be in- 
evitable. Not that you and Tom will cease to 
be friends. I don’t mean that. But you won’t 
see as much of each other as you think — unless 
you take very great pains, and even then Tom 
will be busy. So don’t talk too much about the 
good times you and he are going to have, because 
you may look back upon them with regret and 
perhaps give Tom reason to feel that you’re a 
boy of empty words. I think you understand 
what I mean.” 

Hal nodded, flushing. He understood, and yet 
he did not believe that his father had grasped 
matters in his usual acute manner. Of course, 
he and Tom would go on the same as always. 
Anything else was inconceivable. Yet, as he 
always took his father’s advice, he did so in this 
instance and said little more to Tom about the 
joys of university life which he supposed they were 
to share in common. 

The night before Tom was to leave he came 
home from the Middletons’ about eight o’clock — 
122 


Tom and His Father 


Louise had already left for Vassar — and failed to 
find his father in the house. There was a certain 
old tree under which the man had spent summer 
evenings through all the years of his son’s memory, 
and walking around to the back of the house Tom 
found him there. 

Kerry was smoking, leaning forward, his chin 
upon the palms of his hands. 

“Father!” Tom came to his side. 

The man did not look up, but he took his pipe 
from his mouth. 

“Tom, boy,” he said. 

There was infinite tenderness in his voice and 
a wave of feeling thrilled Tom. 

“Father,” his voice shook, “Td give a lot of 
money if I didn’t have to go East to-morrow.” 

“I know it, Tom,” was the reply. “I’d — I’d 
give a lot if you didn’t have to; but it’s life, boy. 
It’s the only thing.” 

“If I didn’t think that I should go,” Tom re- 
turned. “You’ll be lonely ” 

“It won’t help to worry about that now,” 
smiled Kerry, “and, anyway. I’ve got my good 
friends here, Tom — ^Timms and the rest. Oh, it’s 
all very plesaant, and there’ll be your letters, and 
the fact that you’re on your way at last, to cheer 


123 


The Fullback 


‘‘And when I get there you’ll be there, too, 
father.” He paused, smiling. ‘‘Do you remember 
when you first read the ‘Three Musketeers’ aloud 
to me when I was a kid ?” 

Kerry laughed. 

“I sure do, boy. Your mother said you were 
too young to catch it. But you did, didn’t you ? 
How many times have you read it yourself since 
then f At least twenty. I’ll bet.” 

“At least that. The thing that first hit me 
was that good-by speech D’Artagnan’s old father 
made to him. You remember it?” 

“Do I!” Kerry cleared his throat. “In fact 
I was thinking, Tom, of saying something like it 
myself. ” 

“I knew you were.” Tom laughed. “So I 
thought I’d give you your opening. Shoot.” 

Kerry lighted his pipe and then placed his 
hand upon the shoulder of the boy, who had flung 
himself down upon the grass at his feet. 

“Tom,” he began, “the best thing you’ll find 
about an education, to my way of thinking, will 
be that you’ll find yourself able to say the things 
that are in your mind. I had good parents in 
New Jersey who wanted me to study and go to 
college, too. But I ran away and became a jockey. 
Then I became a trainer and picked up quite a 
124 


Tom and His Father 


lot of easy money on the Dulane horses. I married 
your mother. We ran away to Europe. We were 
well fixed — until that panic came along and killed 
every investment I had made. Finally we drifted 
here. What Fm getting at, boy, is that while I 
haven’t done much in this life except make mis- 
takes, I have picked up a lot of experience.” 

‘‘Mr. Middleton said the other day that if he 
had your philosophy of life he’d be happy,” broke 
in Tom. “He said that the few times you let 
yourself out in the way of talking you showed a 
fine grasp on the problems of this world.” 

Kerry smiled. 

“If he did say that, Tom, maybe you’ll listen a 
little to the speech I’ve been framing up for you.” 
He tapped Tom on the shoulder when the boy de- 
clared that he did not need Mr. Middleton’s in- 
fluence in this respect. “All right,” he went on 
hastily. “You’re a boy of strong character, Tom. 
But remember a strong character does not always 
mean that it will do everything for you. What I 
mean is, that you have to develop its strength in 
the right way. Some of the most evil men in this 
world have been strong men, men with strong 
characters — strong for bad — ^whereas they might 
have been strong for good if they had only devel- 
oped themselves that way. You’ve got to watch 

125 


The Fullback 


yourself every minute in the years when you are 
forming your manhood. Now, if you had ac- 
cepted that offer to go to Wiley’s college you 
would have been practising deceit. When you 
practise deceit in one direction you mark a deep 
rut in your mind and it’s hard to keep from falling 
into that rut in the future. A man’s mind is all 
ruts and grooves, Tom. That’s what we call 
habits. If the ruts are all ruts of good habits — 
and they are harder to dig than the bad ruts some 
way or other — ^why you just do good, as it were, 
naturally. Do you remember the time you came 
home from Blainesville when you were a kid and 
showed me a railroad ticket which you said the 
conductor had forgotten to take up 

As Tom nodded, the man continued: 

“Well, you remember I made you go to the 
conductor next morning and give him the ticket 
back. That was not because I thought the rail- 
road would suffer if you rang in the same ticket 
twice, but because I was thinking of you. It 
would be that you had got something for nothing. 
Who could say that that one experience might 
not make you want to get more things — bigger 
things — for nothing ? I tell you, Tom, it’s those 
little things that tell. It’s the little things mostly 
that become the big things.” 

126 


Tom and His Father 


“I think you’re right,” Tom said. 

'*1 know I am.” Kerry tapped his pipe upon 
his heel and refilled it. “Now, I think you in- 
herit a gambling instinct from me. I had it; I 
overcame it, but Fm afraid it’s in the blood. 
That means it may be in your blood. Last year 
you asked me about betting on a game of ball. 
I asked you not to. And you said you wouldn’t. 
Never bet, Tom. If you win you’re taking money 
which you didn’t earn, didn’t work for; if you 
lose you’re throwing money away to no purpose. 
One is as bad as the other. It’s bad — I know 
just how bad it is, know all the harm it does, and 
that’s one thing I’ll ask of you, Tom; never to 
bet. What do you say.^” 

“I never will, father.” 

“Good ! When you say a thing I never have 
to bother about it again. Your word has always 
been as good as gold. You have never smoked. 
I hope you won’t until you are twenty-one. Then 
you can use your own judgment. With a chap 
as high-strung as you are a good pipe and tobacco 
won’t harm you a bit. As for drink — it’s the worst 
enemy of the human race, as you know. I hope 
you won’t touch anything until after you come 
of age; after that it is for you to decide. I leave 
it to your own good sense. I never touched a 
127 


The Fullback 


drop in my life. Remember this, Tom: you 
don’t have to bow your head to a man in this 
country. Your mother’s people are of the best 
Kentucky stock and my people came to this 
country with the first. They stuck to the soil 
and have always been plain, but they’re the back- 
bone of the country, and don’t you forget it. 

‘‘In your games, Tom, you’ll fight hard and 
square. You won’t ever turn a dirty trick, but 
you’ll insist on a square deal every minute. 
That time you spoke to me about the Pulver 
game, when you hit one of their players who was 
slugging you — well, I asked our parson about 
that and he said you did exactly right. Never 
look for trouble, Tom, and if it comes to you, 
dodge it if you can. If you can’t, why then take 
your own part as a man would. You won’t be a 
bully, I know that. I know it because of the 
way the little kids like and admire you. And if 
you’re licked in a fair and square game — if it 
is a game — or if you’re licked in your studies or 
any ambition after you have given the best there 
is in you to win, I know you’ll take the licking 
like a man and buckle down to make sure that 
the next time you will win.” 

“Go ahead, father.” Tom placed his hand over 
Kerry’s knee. 


128 


Tom and His Father 


“Well, I’m pretty near through — except I 
want to say, Tom, that no one in this world who 
has had the grit to keep fighting, standing up under 
punches that would knock out the ordinary man, 
accepting disappointments and living down and 
climbing above everything that doesn’t go right — 
no man in the world of that sort has ever yet 
failed in doing what he wanted to do and being 
what he wanted to be. It’s the sticker and the 
plugger that win out, because life’s race-course 
isn’t a sprint, it’s a distance race across country, 
and it’s the man with the big heart that leaves 
the others trailing. 

“Now, only one thing more, Tom. I’m here — 
you will be in college preparing yourself for the 
world. I brought you into the world — ^you did 
not ask me to, and so you owe me nothing except 
a return of my love for you. Opportunities will 
come in their time. They are your opportunities, 
and it’s up to you to make the best of them with- 
out considering any one but yourself. All I hope 
is, Tom, that you’ll remember the old days — and 
whatever happens hold me high in your regard. 
That’s all, Tom.” 


129 


CHAPTER VIII 
Haledon University 


OM and Hal took an early morning train to 



i Columbus, where they were to catch the 
through train East. Enoch Chase was at the 
station to meet them. 

“I have written to the treasurer of the uni- 
slty, Tom,’’ said Chase, ‘^and have asked him to 
see that you get into the proper sort of a boarding- 
house. Unless, that is, you want to get into one 
of the freshman dormitories. But I didn’t sup- 
pose you wanted to alFord that.” 

‘‘No, I don’t,” said Tom, “and, Mr. Chase, I 
want to say something. You wrote about getting 
me into college under reduced tuition fee because 
of a scholarship. I don’t want that. I’ve earned 
enough money this summer to go through straight 
like the rest.” 

Chase’s gray eyes snapped appreciatively. 

“Well, I admire your stand, Tom; but you’re 
really putting yourself under an unnecessary 
strain. Those scholarships are for boys of your 


sort, 


130 


Haledon University 

‘'But they’re not for me,” Tom answered. 
“I’m going through Haledon right. And if I find 
I can’t, I’m going to some cheaper place in Penn- 
sylvania or New England, where I can.” 

Chase looked at him curiously. 

“I see. Then, Tom, we haven’t yet got you 
to the point where Haledon appeals to you as the 
only place on earth, where it’s a case of Haledon 
or nothing ? ” 

“Why, no.” Tom shook his head. “I’m after 
an education, and I suppose I could get it at some 
other place as well as at Haledon.” 

Chase laughed and winked at Hal. 

“He won’t feel that way after he has been at 
the old place for a week.” 

“Oh, of course, he won’t,” scolFed Hal. “But 
Tom always talks that way.” 

There were three other Pulver boys on the 
train. One was going to Baliol, the other to Shel- 
burne, while the third was going to a technical 
school in New Jersey. Besides, there were several 
college boys returning to various seats of learn- 
ing in the East, who had come through on the 
train from Chicago and points west. The trip 
was thus a very pleasant one, as all came to know 
one another quite well. Tom learned that Gor- 
don Oliver, who had slugged him in the Pulver 

131 


The Fullback 


game, had entered Shelburne, had, in fact, al- 
ready gone East. 

“He’ll make the Shelburne freshman team all 
right,” decided Hal. “He’s a very good full- 
back, don’t you think so, Tom I He’s put on a 
lot of weight, too.” 

Tom replied shortly that he supposed he would. 

The road upon which Tom was riding passed 
quite close to Haledon; in fact, connected with it 
by a short branch line. 

“We’re due there at nine o’clock, Tom,” Hal 
Middleton’s voice was full of excitement, “so you 
had better get up early and have your breakfast 
and be ready to beat it.” 

Tom, in fact, was beginning to catch some of 
his friend’s mood and he spent rather a restless 
night, arising at six o’clock and preparing himself 
for the eventful day. As he stood in the wash- 
room brushing his hair, one of the Baliol men 
glanced at him admiringly. 

“I wish you were going to Baliol, Kerry,” he 
said. “We could use you to the queen’s taste on 
the varsity next year.” 

“Thanks.” Tom glanced around in some sur- 
prise. “But I guess, if I’m of any use at all, that 
Haledon can use me just as well as your college.” 

“Oh,” grumbled the other, “Haledon will 
132 


use 


Haledon University 

you all right. We beat her last year and she got 
a lucky tie the year before. Well/’ he laughed, 
“I don’t wish you any bad luck, but I hope you 
get gout or something by next year this time.” 

Tom laughed in turn and then went to the 
section which he and Hal occupied. The porter 
had converted the berths into seats and Tom 
lounged on the plush upholstery waiting for the 
breakfast call. As he sat thus any loyal Hale- 
don man would have been pleased, seeing him, to 
know that he was destined for that university. 
There was something noble and untamed about 
the poise of his blond head, and a suggestion of 
that lithe, easy physical energy which one notes 
in the natural athlete. He was the sort of boy 
that any observing person would glance at twice, 
not alone because of his good looks and his figure 
but because of a certain distinctive air. 

Tom and Hal had hardly finished breakfast 
when the train swept through a small city, seeing 
which Hal arose suddenly. 

‘‘We’re almost there. Tommy; come on now, 
so we’ll be ready. They don’t keep these limited 
trains waiting long.” 

Tom obediently laid down his napkin and gained 
his feet. When the train stopped at the station 
they were waiting in the vestibule, their bags in 

133 


The Fullback 


hand. A train had just come in from the other 
direction and the walk which led to the shuttle- 
train on a siding was full of alert young men, all 
of them bearing bags, hat-boxes, golf-kits, and 
what-not. In the distance Tom could make out 
a cluster of buildings on a hilltop, with an oc- 
casional tower rising clear above the sky-line. 

There she is!’’ Hal’ s voice was reverent. 
‘‘Forty-five years ago my father got off a train 
here and looked toward Haledon. Oh, it’s great. 
Tommy, I tell you 1” 

Tom didn’t reply, but led the way to the train. 
There was but one vacant seat and that was 
turned over, so that it faced a seat occupied by 
two students. 

Tom started to crowd past their knees, but 
found himself blocked by the outside man, who 
looked up with a pleasant smile. 

“If you don’t mind, freshman, this seat is being 
held for a couple of friends of ours.” 

Tom flushed but, seeing the smile, did not at- 
tempt to force his way in. Instead he stepped 
back into the aisle, seized the back of the vacant 
seat and, with a sudden movement, turned it over 
so that it faced in the proper direction. Then he 
stepped into it, addressing the astonished pair in 
the seat behind. 


134 


Haledon University 

‘‘If your friends come Fll get up and give them 
the seat. Come on, Hal.” He sat down. 

Hal hesitated, but when the other two gestured 
for him to take the seat he took his place beside 
his companion. 

“You were fresh, Tom,” whispered Hal. “Those 
chaps are sophomores, or perhaps upper classmen. 
The lines are strict here.” 

“I suppose so,” Tom replied, “but I didn’t like 
the way he blocked me ofF with his knee. My 
ticket is as good as his, whoever he may be. If 
they really have any pals coming we’ll get up.” 

As a matter of fact, the two alleged friends did 
appear. They stood in the aisle exchanging greet- 
ings until one of the boys in the seat spoke of the 
recent incident. 

“We were holding the seat for you. Muck,” he 
said, “but a freshman, as it appears, did not rec- 
ognize the greatness of the manager of the world’s 
greatest football eleven.” 

“Quite right, quite right,” laughed the august 
leader of Haledon’s pigskin destinies. “It is 
good to stand on one’s own feet.” 

Tom had arisen. 

“If those are the friends you were waiting for 
ril vacate.” 

But all waved him politely to his place, whether 
135 


The Fullback 

in mockery or genuine gratitude he could not de- 
termine. 

“Not for the world. Please don’t move, 
freshman. We wouldn’t presume. No, no, we 
insist.” 

So, Tom, his face burning, resumed his seat, 
feeling somehow that he had received a lesson he 
would not forget. He was not fresh by nature 
and did not wish to appear in that guise. He had 
fancied the others were trying to be fresh to him, 
to put something over on him, and he had re- 
sented it. 

“You’ll have to take such things, Tom,” Hal 
whispered. “It’s a tradition that a freshman has 
just about the right to live — and that’s all. 
They’ve stopped hazing, you know, and so they 
naturally emphasize the traditions that remain.” 

But Tom, who felt that those behind him were 
inwardly amused at him, that he had made a 
fool of himself at the very outset, was inclined to 
be silent. 

The train meanwhile was passing through fer- 
tile green meadows, over country roads and an- 
cient water-courses, until at last Tom, looking 
out of the window, saw the outlying university 
grounds, an athletic field, unenclosed, containing 
several diamonds, tennis-courts, and the like. 

136 


Haledon University 

Then the beautiful gray buildings came into 
view, and a few seconds later the train was grind- 
ing itself into a standstill. 

“Well, here we are!’’ 

Hal Middleton seized his bags and stepped into 
the aisle, Tom following. The station platform 
was crowded with students, whose shouts of wel- 
come, one to another, mingled with the calls of 
drivers of decrepit hacks and expressmen, made 
the scene one of great confusion. 

In another minute Tom and Hal were walking 
across the campus, with its elms, its flawless 
turf, its winding walks, and its buildings old 
and new, feeling somewhat lost and strange. 

“It seems curious to think that within a few 
weeks we’ll be walking around here as though we 
owned the place,” chuckled Hal. 

“It doesn’t seem as though I ever would,” re- 
joined Tom. “Let’s see — they said the treasurer’s 
office was over there. Come on.” 

“Oh, there’s the gym down there; let’s look 
into that first,” Hal cried. But Tom shook his 
head. 

“You go ahead if you want, Hal. I want to 
get settled as soon as I can, and then see where 
I’m at. What I’m looking for is not a gym, but 
a good job.” 


137 


The Fullback 

The treasurer was a brisk, sympathetic per- 
sonage. 

‘‘Yes, Kerry,’’ he said briskly, “we’ve heard of 
you through Mr. Chase. In fact. I’ve just re- 
ceived a telegram, a night letter rather, from him. 
I don’t know that you could do better than go to 
Mrs. Allison’s boarding-house. It’s on Mont- 
gomery street, just above the railroad station, 
toward the campus. Of course, you’ll eat at 
the commons, all freshmen and sophomores 
must.” 

“I understand,” Tom said. He handed the 
official a list upon which were noted the following 
items: “Tuition and public-room fees, ^170. 
Library fee, $5. Infirmary fee, $y. Department 
of physical education fee, ^10.” 

The treasurer glanced over it and nodded. 

“Yes, that is quite correct,” he said, where- 
upon Tom took from his pocket a certified check 
for the total amount and gave it to the official, 
who ordered a clerk to give Tom a receipt. 

“Very good,” he smiled. “Now you are fairly 
started.” He paused. “By the way, how does 
that leave you ?” 

Tom shrugged. 

“It leaves me pretty flat; at least it will after 
I have bought my books and things. I under- 

138 


Haledon University 

Stand that I can pay my first eighteen weeks’ 
charges for the commons any time this month.” 

‘‘It has been arranged so that you can,” was 
the reply. 

“Thank you, sir.” Tom turned to Hal, who 
attended to his necessary details and then, with 
a sigh of relief, took Tom by the arm. 

“Come on out, Tom, and let’s breathe the 
campus air. Whoop, we’re really Haledon men 
now! Doesn’t it just get to you?” Tom gazed 
at him vaguely. 

“Come on over and look at my room in Holton 
Hall. I sent almost a car-load of stuff here a 
week or two ago.” Hal was all eagerness, all 
enthusiasm. But the payment of the money for 
which Tom had worked so hard all summer had 
quieted him. He was looking toward the future 
and anxious to buckle to his task. 

“You go on, Hal. I’ve got to see the registrar 
and the student’s help bureau chap, and do a 
lot of things.” 

“But college doesn’t open officially until to- 
morrow,” Hal interjected. “You can afford to 
absorb the atmosphere to-day.” 

“I wish I could, Hal, old boy.” Tom shook 
his head. “But this is a fine place, and I want to 
stay here so I’d better get started on what I 

139 


The Fullback 


have to do. You go ahead and at noon Fll meet 
you at that place we picked out for luncheon. 
The commons doesn’t start until to-morrow, you 
know.” 

So the two parted, Hal bound for a gilded 
dormitory and Tom setting forth to ascertain 
how he could remain a student of Haledon and 
yet eat three meals a day and have a place to 
sleep. 

The man whose business it was to find employ- 
ment for students who must work their way 
through college informed Tom that the list of 
student waiters in the commons was filled, but 
that he had secured for him a position in the 
physical laboratory. He was a genial, optimistic 
man. He said: 

^Ht’s mainly setting the place to rights after 
every one has gone. For this the university will 
remit three dollars on your weekly fee for the 
commons. Now, here is a list of four families 
who will give you work about their grounds 
almost every day until the snow comes, when you 
can look after their furnaces. You look like a 
bright chap; you’ll no doubt find other ways of 
picking up money. Go to it, and God bless 
you.” 

Tom, thinking somewhat ruefully of how dif- 
140 


Haledon University 

ferent his experiences at Cokedale College might 
have been, thanked his mentor nevertheless and 
went down to Montgomery Street to look over 
his room. It was rather a large house with man- 
sard roof, a relic of the walnut period at Hale- 
don. There was a long veranda fronting an old- 
fashioned yard, which was cluttered with iron 
urns and other garden ornaments, in vogue fifty 
years before. 

The keeper of the house, Mrs. Allison, was a 
stout, motherly woman, who had spent twenty 
years in caring for the young men who came to 
her. She greeted Tom kindly and conducted 
him to a small room on the third floor. 

‘‘You’ll be comfortable here,” she purred, 
“and that’s all I can say. The bed’s good, so 
good that Eddie Ainsworth, who lived here last 
year, never could get up in time for chapel. 
That student-lamp is old but it works — if you 
buy the oil — and that book-shelf there or the 
table will probably hold more books than you 
care to look at. Here’s your night-key; I hope 
you are not one of the wild young scamps who 
come roistering in at all hours.” 

As Tom smilingly said he hoped she would find 
he was not, she grunted and, after assuring him he 
was lucky to get a room so cheap within proximity 
141 


The Fullback 


to the campus, waddled away. Tom watched her 
go and then unpacked his bags, placing his toilet 
articles on the old bureau and hanging his clothing 
in the closet. Within an hour he had established 
an atmosphere as homelike as he could make it. 
Then he left for the restaurant to keep his ap- 
pointment with Hal. Not many minutes after he 
had gone Mrs. Allison entered his room and looked 
curiously about. It was her habit thus to ap- 
praise the character and personality of her lodg- 
ers; in the manner in which a newcomer made 
himself at home she found an unfailing index to a 
boy’s dominant traits. 

Tom had shifted the furniture aboiv^ at which 
she smiled. Here was a young man of individual 
tastes. That he was neat and orderly was shown 
by the disposition of the articles on the bureau, by 
the way his clothes were hung and the drawers of 
the bureau packed. On the wall hung an enlarged 
photograph of his father’s store, and a colored 
lithograph of a football player, his arms out- 
stretched to receive a punt while two ferocious 
tacklers plunged toward him. There were three 
photographs secured between the glass and frame 
of the mirror over the bureau. One was of his 
father, the other of his mother — the other was 
one of Louise Middleton, inscribed ‘‘to my dear 
142 


Haledon University 

friend, Thomas Kerry.” On the table were two 
books, a combination English and Latin diction- 
ary and a Bible. This Mrs. Allison opened. It 
was a gift to the boy from his mother. In a 
little black-bordered pasteboard frame, just inside 
the cover was a lock of hair. Under it the in- 
scription: ‘‘Mother — 1906.” 

Mrs. Allison closed the book with softened eyes 
and then, suddenly turning, tiptoed out of the 
room. She had formed her opinion of Tom 
Kerry. 

Tom found Hal Middleton at table with sev- 
eral classmates, all of whom he had picked up 
in Holton Hall. It appeared that a bond had 
already been established among them. 

“Hello, Tom,’’ called Hal, “come on; here’s a 
place for you.” Tom, who was diffident in the 
presence of strangers, took his place quietly, 
nodding to one or the other of the boys as Hal 
gave their names. 

“What prep school.^” asked one of them, the 
graduate of a New England preparatory institu- 
tion, as Tom picked up the menu. 

“No preparatory school,” Tom answered, “at 
least, I come from a high school out in Ohio.” 

Tom could see by the fellow’s face that he was 
of the sort who would have been more impressed 

143 


The Fullback 


had he stated he had come from Groton or Saint 
Paul’s or Andover or any of the well-known 
secondary schools. But Hal, who saw it, too, 
spoke up eagerly. 

‘‘We wanted him to come to Pulver, but he 
wouldn’t. He was the best school pitcher and 
fullback in the State.” 

The group regarded him with renewed interest, 
but Tom, shaking his head, frowned at his friend. 

“It isn’t what I was at school,” he told Hal 
afterward, “it’s what I do here that is going to 
count.” 

He had felt this more than once in the course of 
the morning. No one had broken his neck, as 
the saying is, to welcome Tom or to make him 
feel he was regarded as an acquisition to the uni- 
versity, if only because of his supposed athletic 
ability. And Tom was the sort of boy who rated 
Haledon the higher for just this sort of reticence. 
It would have cheapened this magnificent place, 
he felt, if there had been any such demonstration 
on the part either of university officer or student. 

In the afternoon almost every one went down 
to the university gridiron to see the football squad 
at work. They had been practising for a week, 
and a tentative first eleven had been formed. 
He gazed with amazement at the great, towering 
144 


Haledon University 

walls of concrete which surrounded the field, and 
wondered if even fifty thousand people could 
fill them. 

“You bet they can,” said Hal, to whom he 
expressed his doubt. “I saw Baliol play here 
four years ago. You can’t imagine how corking 
it is ! Think how it must be to make a touch- 
down for Haledon in a big game!” 

Tom thought it must be the experience of a 
lifetime, and said so. He looked at the varsity 
team with interest. It was the first one he had 
ever seen. There were some great, hulking fel- 
lows in the line, men who yet combined speed 
and agility with their size, such being the demand 
of the modern game of football. But one of the 
ends was lighter than Tom, who now weighed 
one hundred and seventy-five pounds stripped; 
both were, in fact, while he judged that he would 
bear comparison physically with any of the 
backfield men. In fact, the two halves and the 
full were hardly of his rangy type, being of the 
stocky order. 

When the varsity lined up for a brief scrim- 
mage with the scrub his chief impression was the 
harmonious action of the forwards. Their backs 
bent at the same angle and at the snap of the 
ball they charged, as it seemed to Tom, like a 
I4S 


The Fullback 


piece of machinery. There was, in fact, a sudden 
springing to action on the part of the team as a 
whole that caught Tom’s eyes, unaccustomed as 
they were to unified team-play of the sort de- 
manded by a coach of a big university eleven, 
even after a week of practise. 

But the coaches, there were several of them 
either on the side-lines or directly behind the 
varsity, were not as well pleased as was Tom 
Kerry. After every play they would stop the 
action and mingle with the players, criticising 
their work and at times crouching themselves 
and demonstrating correct methods of procedure. 
And always the cry resounded: ‘‘Together men! 
Together 1” Evidently, thought Tom, these men- 
tors saw a great deal better than he did. He 
caught several glimpses of the head coach, whom 
he had heard speak at the dinner in Columbus. 
This man seemed to do little talking, and what he 
said was heard by the men alone. In general, he 
struck Tom as observing, storing away impres- 
sions of the team, leaving the actual work of in- 
struction to his subordinates. Tom wisely con- 
jectured that in these first days a great deal that 
he had to say would be said later to the coaches 
of the various departments of the eleven. 

As he left the field in the late afternoon a stal- 
wart young man accosted him. 

146 


Haledon University 

^^You’re a freshman?’’ he opened, glancing 
at the small cap which Tom had already pur- 
chased and in which he felt unutterably foolish. 
^‘What’s your name?” 

“Kerry.” Tom was about to add, “What of 
it?” but he repressed the temptation. 

The man glanced at a list he held in his hand, 
and then his manner became cordial. 

“Oh, I see. You’re Kerry, from Ohio. My 
name is Jerrems, the freshman coach. Report 
at the field to-morrow afternoon about four 
o’clock for practise.” 

Tom nodded. 

“I’ll try to; I am working my way here and I 
don’t know how my time will be. I hope I can 
come.” 

“I hope so, too.” The speaker shook his head 
significantly and walked away. But suddenly 
he turned back. “Kerry,” he said, “don’t you 
want to come over to the field-house with me and 
look over the plant?” 

Tom did wish to do this and so the two walked 
across the turf to the dressing-rooms, where, in a 
concrete apartment filled with steam, he saw 
dim figures splashing in alternate showers of 
hot and cold water. There was a great deal of 
laughter and badinage, as though the athletes, 
far from working off their energy on the grid- 
147 


The Fullback 

iron, had gained through their exercise increased 
stores of it. 

Then Jerrems, whom Tom recalled as a back 
on last year’s varsity, conducted the freshman 
over the club-house with its training-table and 
coach’s dining-room, its entrance hall, the walls 
of which were lined with photographs of past 
elevens and individu.al portraits of brilliant stars. 

‘‘I hope, Tom,” said Jerrems, when he shook 
hands with Tom at the door, ‘That some day 
you will have your picture here. The time to 
begin is now, with the freshmen. You learn our 
system and get acquainted generally. It will help 
a lot, and men who sometimes think they’re too 
big for the cub outfit find they never make the 
varsity.” 

“I can see that,” Tom returned. “I want you 
to know I certainly don’t think I’m too big for 
the freshman team,” he added. “It’s merely 
a matter of work with me. And I’ll do the best 
I can.” 

“You couldn’t do more. Good-by.” Jerrems 
nodded at Tom and closed the door. 

Tom, who at first had rather resented Jerrems’s 
manner, had come to like him. The coach was 
one of those quiet, abrupt sort of men, whose 
willingness to go to the trouble of playing escort 
148 


Haledon University 

to a freshman was flattering. At least Tom so 
decided. 

It was supper-time when Tom arrived on the 
campus. Hal was standing in front of the res- 
taurant with a group of newly made friends. 

‘‘Tom/’ he said, “we’re going to the hotel to 
eat. Come ahead.” 

As the boys turned up the street Tom caught 
Hal by the arm. 

“Look here, Hal, that hotel is a high-priced 
place. As the food is decent enough here, I’d 
be a chump to spend a lot of money that I need.” 

“Nonsense,” cried Hal. “This is my treat, 
you know.” 

“No, it isn’t. Thanks just the same, old man, 
but in looking over this place I’ve decided that 
I’ve a rough year lying ahead, and I might as 
well face it right now. We’ve got to follow dif- 
ferent paths pretty largely, Hal. I know your 
heart is in the right place, and always will be. 
You know, of course, how I feel toward you. 
Now, from now on don’t think you have to wait 
around and include me in things. Next year, 
maybe, it will be different. But I think you un- 
derstand, Hal.” 

Hal, with his father’s words in mind, gazed 
at Tom silently a moment. 

149 


The Fullback 


‘‘All right, Tom; I do understand.” He tapped 
his friend on the shoulder and hurried up the 
street after the others. 

After his dinner, which Tom found a lonely 
meal, he walked over to the campus, walking past 
the various dormitories, gazing into the windows 
out of which came bursts of song, the music of 
mandolin, banjo, or piano. The rooms were 
elaborately furnished, and with their fireplaces, 
great leather easy chairs, and shaded electric- 
lamps, impressed Tom with their suggestions of 
comfort — made him, in fact, almost envious. 

But he fought down this emotion and, shrugging 
his shoulders, continued his walk, feeling more 
than a trifle homesick. 


CHAPTER IX 

Tom Strikes Out the Sophomores 

T he ringing of Tom’s alarm-clock at half 
after six awakened him. For a second or 
two he did not realize where he was. His sleep 
had been heavy and dreamless and the strange 
environment of his room for the instant puzzled 
him. But it was all clear in a moment, and the 
tolling of a sweet-toned bell reminded him that 
he would be expected to appear at chapel shortly. 
The sunlight was flowing into his room and he 
found that his depression of the evening had dis- 
appeared. 

When, fresh from his cold tub in the bathroom 
on the floor below, he appeared at the commons 
and was ushered to one of the several dining- 
rooms set apart for the freshmen, he felt himself 
mentally and physically prepared for whatever 
might come. Haledon was a university which 
adhered to the custom of compulsory chapel 
and yet cherished the theory that devoutness 
was best to be obtained on a full stomach. Ser- 
vice, thus, came after the breakfast-hour. 

He found the boys at his table to be a set of 


The Fullback 


likable chaps, all of them full of animal spirits 
and the zest of the first day of the college year. 
The waiters, who were students, conducted 
themselves in the most efficient and matter-of- 
fact way, and Tom was informed by his neighbor 
that at luncheon they would sit at table while a 
number of those now eating would serve the 
meal. Tom regarded the arrangement as most 
satisfactory in its aspects of democracy. 

When they entered the chapel and took the 
seats allotted to first-year men, the pews and the 
gallery seats of the mellow old building were 
filled — rows upon rows of young men seated by 
classes, several of the faculty flanking the presi- 
dent on the pulpit platform, the remainder in 
pews running parallel to the walls of the chapel. 
The president uttered a brief prayer and then 
announced the hymn. There was a rustling of 
leaves and then as the wave of organ music broke 
over their heads they arose and sang: 

“Oh God, our help in ages past, 

Our hope for years to come.’’ 

Those two thousand voices sweeping and surg- 
ing in mighty chorus made the fine old anthem a 
new thing to Tom, and at length he, too, joined 
in the throbbing harmony: 

152 


Tom Strikes Out the Sophomores 

“Life like an ever-rolling stream 
Bears all its sons away/* 

A thrill passed over Tom. He felt that it was 
good to be here and to be singing with this clean, 
fresh army of youth. At home he had very sel- 
dom joined in the singing, because of a sort of 
diffidence. But here he was simply borne along 
on the tide, knew that however loudly he raised 
his voice it would be nothing more than an ele- 
ment of a vast sound. 

The president, with his strong, smoothly shaven 
face, a very man among men, welcomed the stu- 
dents in few, if pointed, words, taking his text 
from Ecclesiastes: ‘‘Rejoice, O young man, in thy 
youth.’’ 

Then, as the sound of snapping fingers arose 
in every part of the chapel — Haledon’s method 
of applause in this house of worship — a senior 
arose, came to the front of the pulpit, and made 
brief announcements of interest to the class. 
Then came a junior, then a sophomore, then a 
freshman, who spoke of the class-meeting for elec- 
tion of officers and of other impending events con- 
cerning the organization. 

The service concluded, Tom hurried out, feel- 
ing that he had been inspired, and went at once 
to his first lecture. He had several on his list, 

153 


The Fullback 


and these, with his recitations and his task of 
earning money to carry him through the year, 
gave him a full day. In fact, on the first day, 
when the time came for football practise he was 
busy cleaning the grounds of one of the wealthy 
residents of the village. Thus it was that Jerrems 
missed him not only in this practise day but every 
afternoon of the week. 

On Saturday he was able to get to the fresh- 
man field in time to see the last of the work. 
Hal Middleton, he noticed, was playing at back 
on the first team. It was really the first time he 
had had to think all week and his thoughts were 
somewhat bitter. He loved the game of foot- 
ball, and watching that eleven which Jerrems had 
chosen, he knew he could make it easily enough. 
He would love to be playing at Hal’s side. But 
it was out of the question. He turned from the 
field and walked toward the campus. The fight of 
which he had spoken when he announced to Chase 
and Warburton his decision to come to this uni- 
versity was harder than he thought it would be. 
Yet, after all, it was a fight — and Tom was a 
fighter. He closed his lips tightly. 

That night when he entered his room he found 
three men awaiting him. They were Jerrems, 
the coach of the university eleven, and the cap- 
tain of that team. They greeted Tom cordially, 
154 


Xom Strikes Out the Sophomores 

and then the captain, one of the great men of 
the university, spoke. 

‘‘Kerry,’’ he said, “you are too valuable a man 
to keep away from the freshman field. We want 
you there because the team needs you and be- 
cause the varsity eleven will probably need you 
next year.” 

The captain was a quarterback, a quick, 
thick-set young man, with high cheek-bones and 
steel-gray eyes. 

“I’ve been looking for you all week, Kerry,” 
Jerrems said in his gruff way. “The class needs 
you.” 

Tom flushed. He was very direct by nature, 
and he could see the wide discrepancy between 
what the class needed and what he needed. He 
stated that difference concisely. 

“There is no game I love better than football,” 
he concluded, “and if you’ll tell me how I can 
play it. I’ll thank you. I’ve told you how my 
schedule lies — I’ve told you my financial con- 
dition. This week I shall make just enough to 
pay my way, without a cent over even for a 
newspaper. Now I’m going to do better than 
that, but I can’t do even as well if I go out for 
the team. Now, you tell me what I can do, Mr. 
Jerrems, and I’ll do it gladly.” 

As Jerrems was silent Tom went on: 

IS5 


The Fullback 


‘‘What I hope to do is to get myself in such 
position that I can come out for the varsity next 
season. I think I can. In the meantime Fve 
got to stick closely to the main game.’’ 

The two varsity men did not seem dissatisfied 
with this, but Jerrems was quite so. He frowned, 
shaking his head, but, finding nothing to say, he 
took up his hat and accompanied the other two 
out of the room. 

In the days that followed Tom succeeded in 
pleasing the scholastic, if not the athletic authori- 
ties. He was the first to arrive for lectures and 
the last to leave, and he filled his note-book with 
copious data, all of which naturally was pleasing, 
not to say flattering, to the professors. 

He was able one Saturday morning to practise 
with the freshmen baseball men who were pre- 
paring for their annual contest against the 
sophomore team. Tom was not known to many 
of his class. He had not been able to attend the 
election of officers, nor had he taken part in the 
class rush. He was to most of them merely one 
of those students who are seen flitting here and 
there about village and campus without attach- 
ment of any sort. 

But Hal Middleton, who had earned a place at 
third on his nine, set up a joyful cry when Tom 

156 


Tom Strikes Out the Sophomores 

appeared in his ordinary clothing, a book or two 
under his arm. 

^‘Yea-a, Tommy!” He ran from his place to 
the captain, who had been inspecting the wares 
of several pitchers. ‘‘Here’s a pitcher whom the 
sophs can’t hit,” he cried. The captain, looking 
up, recognized Tom as a member of his class. 

“Kerry!” He glanced surprisedly at Hal. “I 
understood he was a football — ” He paused, 
adding rather sarcastically: “A football man who 
doesn’t care for football.” 

As the two advanced toward Tom, Hal went 
on to say that he had never mentioned Kerry’s 
ability, because, through no fault of his own, Tom 
had already got into the bad graces of a lot of 
fellows because he would not play football. 

“I thought it would be the same about base- 
ball,” he continued, “but if he will pitch, you 
needn’t worry about the sophomores this after- 
noon.” 

The captain smiled and approached Tom, who 
was standing back of first base awaiting them. 

“We’re going to play the sophomores after the 
football game this afternoon, Kerry,” he began. 
“Game won’t start until nearly five. We need a 
pitcher. Can you help us out — that is, if you 
think you can make good ?” 

157 


The Fullback 


Tom thought a moment and then nodded. 

‘‘Why, yes,” he said, “I can make that game, 
and I will, if you really want me, Anderson.” 

“I never said you could pitch, Tom,” broke in 
Hal, “because I didn’t want to embarrass you.” 
Tom had visited his friend in his room at Holton 
Hall the night after Jerrems and the varsity men 
had made their call, and had gone over the entire 
situation with young Middleton, who had been 
made to understand perfectly. 

“That’s all right,” Hal. 

Tom was taking off his coat, and turned to 
Anderson: 

“I’ll toss up a few just to see if I have any- 
thing, if you wish.” 

The captain nodded, and Tom spent the next 
twenty minutes in mowing down batter after 
batter, the catcher being an able backstop from 
Lawrenceville. 

“That’ll do, Kerry,” said Anderson at length. 
“You show up about half past four or quarter to 
five. Have you got a suit ?” ' 

Tom said he had, and then went off to a lec- 
ture, feeling more of a sense of kinship with his 
classmates than he had yet entertained. He 
arrived at the great football amphitheatre in 
time to see the varsity eleven dispose of a small 
158 


Tom Strikes Out the Sophomores 

New England college team by a large score, and 
then hurried over to the baseball field, where 
the rival nines were already dressing for the 
game. 

The contest which followed was characterized 
by the fiercest rooting that Tom had ever heard. 
The sophomores were peculiarly venomous and 
concentrated a great deal of their efforts upon 
the pitcher, whom they wished to rattle. As 
the freshmen dealt similarly by the sophomore 
pitcher, Tom had no complaint on the ground of 
unfairness. 

He would have had no material cause for com- 
plaint an3rway because the sophomores were like 
children before his delivery. They made, in fact, 
only two limping hits all afternoon. Mangin, 
the varsity baseball coach, whose practise it 
was to look over the freshmen on this day with 
a view to future varsity material, at first rubbed 
his eyes — he was umpiring the game — and then, 
as inning after inning passed, a broad grin began 
to settle upon his face. And there were others 
hardly less interested — his class primarily and a 
number of prominent alumni, football players, 
and ardent rooters who had come down to the 
university to see how the eleven shaped up in 
their first test of the season. 

159 


The Fullback 


^‘Who is he?” ^‘Where’d that big-league slab 
artist come from ?” These and many other ques- 
tions of similar sort were bandied about the field, 
and when the game was over, or at least when the 
umpire called the game at the end of the seventh 
inning because the chagrined sophs invaded the 
field, the freshmen had scored four runs and 
their rivals none. 

The coach buttonholed Tom in the midst of 
the struggling crowd, the freshmen having charged 
upon the diamond in a valiant effort to clear it 
of their hated enerriy. 

‘'Kid,” he said, “\^o taught you to pitch ?” 

“No one,” smiled Tom. “I taught myself. 
Byrnes, of the Columbus American Association 
team, gave me some points,” he added upon 
second thought. “He wanted me to play with 
his team.” 

“Did, eh!” The coach nodded. “I know 
Byrnes, son.” Mangin himsHf was a big-league 
graduate. “I know him well. You keep away 
from him.” 

“Oh, I shall. Fm going to keep out of league 
ball.” 

“Fine for you.” That evening Mangin sent a 
letter to McGraw, of the Giants: 

“Fve got the most promising kid pitcher I 
i6o 


Tom Strikes Out the Sophomores 

ever saw, a first-year man. How much do I get 
if I land him for you after he leaves here 

And McGraw, looking forward as he was to 
a series of world’s championship matches, an- 
swered the letter, although what he said must 
remain Mangin’s property, since he never an- 
nounced its contents to any one. 

After the game he found himself a class hero, 
and, to crown all, when he left the field-house the 
captain of the university nine, who was waiting 
for him, walked all the way to Tom’s room with 
the pitcher, talking of prospects for the future. 

Never after that game cid Tom feel the old 
loneliness, and when his classmates understood 
what he was doing and why he was doing it he 
became one of their idols, and the boy with money 
and the boy without money alike sought his 
friendship. As may be imagined, Hal Middleton 
was greatly pleased, and when later in the fall 
the Baliol cubs can.e to Haledon to play their 
annual contest, ten of Tom’s classmates — one of 
them the son of a New York millionaire — helped 
him with his tasks so that he could sit with his 
class and cheer the team on to victory — or, as it 
happened, to encourage it in its defeat. 

The varsity that afternoon played the big 
game in Baliol — having already been defeated by 
l6l 


The Fullback 


Shelburne’s powerful eleven — and was again 
beaten, a fact which threw the whole university 
into a night of gloom. Of them all Tom did not 
share the pervading mood. The eleven had tried 
hard and had been defeated. It was too bad, but, 
after all, what difference did it make ? Haledon 
would survive and there would be other seasons 
when the tables would be turned. Perhaps it 
would be given him to help change them. He had 
little patience with the depression of the crowds 
of students who drifted into town next day with 
the story of defeat written in face and mien. 

As a matter of fact, that day was made brilliant 
for Tom by a letter from Louise Middleton. She 
had said nothing about writing to him when they 
parted at Annandale, and, as a consequence, while 
not altogether surprising, the missive was none 
the less gratefully received. She told of her ex- 
periences at Vassar and then went on to say that 
Hal had informed her briefly of Tom’s career at 
Haledon. 

‘‘You may feel out of it, Tom,” she said. “I 
know how horrid it must be to give up football, 
and not to be able to live in one of the dormi- 
tories, but you’ll be bigger and finer for it in the 
end. You don’t know how much I respect you 
for what you are doing. And, in the end, you’ll 
162 


Tom Strikes Out the Sophomores 

have a place in the world that will compensate. 
I do hope you will be able to go out for the var- 
sity next year. Hal says you expect to. I wish 
you could see me now in this cosey room hunting 
for Greek verbs and drinking hot chocolate. I 
suppose ril see you in Annandale at Christmas 
time.” 

But she did not see Tom then. He could not 
afford the trip West, and so, together with perhaps 
fifty boys whose homes were in the remote South 
or far West, he remained in college. Tom dined 
on Christmas night with his professor in the Eng- 
lish department, a man with wolfish gray beard 
and eyes, whose wife, a motherly woman, had 
taken a great fancy to Tom. After dinner Tom’s 
host led the way into the tobacco-scented study, 
where, pipe in mouth, he sat back and descanted 
upon the philosophy of life, upon letters, and upon 
various subjects of interest to young men. Tom 
felt years older when he left the little abode of 
books and pipes and tobacco-jars, and thereafter 
he came often to this study of Professor Wither- 
spoon’s for counsel or just for talk. In after-years 
one of the pictures of Haledon that survived most 
clearly was that of a grave, kindly man, puffing 
blue smoke from a preposterously large pipe, which 
he waved occasionally to emphasize a gesture. 

163 


The Fullback 


He spoke that Christmas night of Tom’s career 
and said he would like to see the boy so arrange 
as to indulge in athletics. 

‘^Not that I was ever much of an athlete/’ he 
smiled. ‘‘We didn’t go in for athletics so much in 
my day here. But they are an outlet; you will 
hear men say that the development of sports in 
our colleges has reduced in material degree the 
manifestations of deviltry which used so frequently 
to characterize college life. I think that is not 
only so, but would give it a wider application. 
I think our country is so greatly inclined toward 
peace because of the scope of our athletic system, 
which includes boys and young men of every 
class. In foreign lands, without this stimulus 
and without this outlet for emotion, with life 
pretty much of a drab commonplace, war fever 
is not at all an unnatural phenomenon, it is 
mutatis mutandis, quite natural, essentially reason- 
able. The Olympic games, if continued, will be a 
constantly increasing force for peace because of 
this very fact.” 

All of which impressed Tom as sane enough — 
as no doubt it was — and he always thereafter 
held the sports in which he participated in higher 
esteem. 

The opening of the new term brought to Kerry, 
164 


Tom Strikes Out the Sophomores 

besides his other work, opportunities for tutoring 
boys of his class who had lagged in their studies, 
who were looking forward with dread to the mid- 
year examinations when the faculty scythe cuts off 
many a careless undergraduate career. For this 
he was well paid, and he made additional money 
by inaugurating a hot coffee and sandwich busi- 
ness in which young boys of the town were en- 
gaged to peddle the food and drink among the 
dormitories between nine and ten o’clock. 

This was very popular with the undergraduates, 
and soon “Kerry’s Sandwich and Coffee Route,” 
as they came to call it, was a source of lucrative 
income for the young promoter. By the end of 
February he had begun to see his way clear, had 
settled all his college bills, and was beginning to 
lay money aside. He had this satisfaction and 
it was great, but he knew that in the hurry and 
hustle of his affairs he was missing something of 
college life that his friend Hal Middleton was re- 
ceiving in full. However, there would be sufficient 
time for that later. For the present he was cer- 
tain that he had done everything that lay within 
him to do. 

The fraternity life at Haledon was perfunctory 
in its nature. Students were not permitted to 
have their meals in the houses, and they exerted 

165 


The Fullback 


little influence upon the social life of the uni- 
versity. The clubs to be attained in junior and 
senior years, and the societies, were, however, 
extremely important, and Hal spent some little 
time arguing with Tom as to the desirability of 
his forming associations, with boys of the ‘‘proper 
sort,’’ with boys who, through birth or prepa- 
ratory-school association, were already headed for 
definite upper-class organizations. 

But Tom had no time for this, and, as a matter 
of fact, it is likely he was the better ofF for this 
fact, because, moving about among every group 
as well as among those who belonged to no par- 
ticular set of students, he became more widely 
known not only among his class but among the 
undergraduates generally. It was commonly 
whispered that he would be elected president of 
his class in sophomore year. But Tom was not 
worrying about this; his mind was wholly upon 
the problem he had set out to solve, and it was 
too interesting as well as too vital to be mini- 
mized in the slightest degree by extraneous affairs. 

He had not the time to try for the freshman 
nine, and, as a matter of fact, Mangin, the varsity 
coach, was not annoyed at this. He had seen 
freshman pitchers go to the leagues without con- 
tinuing their college courses, and he had also seen 
1 66 


Tom Strikes Out the Sophomores 

them suffer from accidents which had ended their 
value to the university. He was, therefore, quite 
content that Tom should remain, as he put it, 
in pickle. 

Tom’s success as a tutor — all those he had 
coached for the mid-years passed their examina- 
tions — brought him more offers for his services in 
this direction than he could attend to, and as a 
consequence he raised his rates and was busy all 
day long. He was, in truth, able to turn over 
some of his manual work to other needy students. 

When the soft spring days of May arrived and 
the university began to spend the greater part of 
its time on the green turf under the venerable 
elms, Tom devised an idea which capped his 
success. He learned that from fourteen to six- 
teen thousand alumni and friends of Haledon 
came back every year to witness the annual 
commencement game against Baliol. He went to 
the library and collected every work bearing upon 
baseball at Haledon; then he went to the gym- 
nasium, the athletic club, and other buildings 
devoted to sport and had one of the students who 
was an expert at photography copy the portraits 
of many diamond stars of the near and remote 
past. 

Then, abandoning all but the students who were 
167 


The Fullback 


in grave need of his assistance as tutor, he set to 
work to compile a paper-covered pamphlet which 
he entitled ‘‘Haledon’s Diamond Stars of To-day 
and Yesterday/’ When the manuscript was com- 
pleted he took it and the photographs to a local 
printer and arranged to have it brought out on 
the commission basis. When the brochures were 
delivered they presented an attractive appearance, 
and, aided by an army of small boys, Tom sold 
out his entire edition of five thousand, at fifteen 
cents each, to the open-handed commencement 
throngs, who, by the way, got their money’s 
worth. 

Thus it was that when the young man checked 
up his standing on the day of the final exercises 
attending the graduation of the senior class, he 
was delighted to find that he had enough money 
in the local bank to pay his way through Haledon 
the succeeding year with a little left for luxuries, 
without the necessity of raising his hand. But, 
of course, he would raise his hand, since he had 
his upper-class years to think about. 

It was a dreamy June evening when he fin- 
ished his final tasks and walked across the cam- 
pus to where the seniors were singing for the last 
time under the ivied walls of a venerable build- 
ing. Most of the students and many of the un- 

i68 


Tom Strikes Out the Sophomores 

dergraduates were gathered about listening, and 
the atmosphere was very solemn. 

Tom, filled with the satisfaction of a year well 
spent, could not fall into the prevailing mood. 
In the light streaming down from many Japanese 
lanterns he could see the tense, melancholy faces 
of the singers. He noted several with handker- 
chiefs held to their eyes. He could not quite un- 
derstand. Here they were, the sanction of a great 
university at their backs, going out into the 
world to fight the battle of life. He should think 
they would be eager to go, that they would be 
filled with joyful emotions over the fact that they 
had completed their course and were ready for 
the real thing. But no; they were not joyful; 
they were, quite the contrary, depressed and 
sad as they lifted their faces and sang in sweet 
harmony the song which Tom had never heard, 
because it was reserved at Haledon for this last 
function of the year: 

“So raise the rosy goblet high 
The senior’s chalice, and belie 
The tongues that trouble and defile; 

For we have yet a little while 
To linger, you and youth and I, 

In college days.” 

It was then that Tom caught something of the 
pathos of the occasion, and he turned away won- 
169 


The Fullback 


dering if he, too, when his turn came, would sing 
that song with a quaver in his voice. There was 
the dim suggestion that perhaps affairs would so 
shape themselves in his life at Haledon as to 
bring him into some mood of the sort on graduat- 
ing day; but just what those affairs would be 
and how they would operate he had no conception. 

The university closed its doors next day, and 
Tom left immediately for the West, not neglecting, 
however, to engage a room in one of the cheaper 
dormitories on the campus before he went. Hal 
had gone on to Vassar for a dance, and he showed 
Tom a letter from his sister, asking him to bring 
Tom, too. But, having no evening clothes and 
being anxious to get home and prepare for a 
summer of work on the railroad line, Tom de- 
clined. Then, too, he was more than anxious to 
see his father and Annandale. It seemed an 
eternity since he had been home, and even Hal 
Middleton’s report of affairs in the village had in 
no measure compensated for his inability to spend 
Christmas among those whom he really loved. 

He found Annandale unchanged, but, what 
pleased him more, he found his father looking as 
well and as young as when Tom had departed for 
Haledon the previous fall. 

‘Tt’s been lonely, Tom — lonely’s no word for 
170 


Tom Strikes Out the Sophomores 

it,” said Kerry after he had escaped from his 
son’s powerful arms, ‘‘but people have been very 
nice and I knew you were doing fine, so T counted 
the blessings as bigger than the troubles. And 
now you’re back. My, Tom, you’ve grown 
huskier ! Say, what’ll happen to Shelburne and 
Baliol in the autumn, eh ?” 

Tom laughed, and thus, arm in arm, the two 
walked up the village street, while the store- 
keepers came to the door and gave the newcomer 
a welcome that warmed his heart. 

Mr. Middleton dropped into the store next 
day, holding in his hand a letter in the handwrit- 
ing of his daughter. 

“Louise is not coming back with Hal, after all,” 
he said. “She writes that slie is going to the 
home of a classmate on Cape Ann for two weeks 
and that she’ll join us in Maine at our summer 
home. Well, I’m glad she’s making friends. 
Her friend. Miss Bathgate, has a brother at Hale- 
don, Tom — do you know him ? He was a sopho- 
more last year.” 

Tom nodded. 

“Yes, I just know him.” He did not add that 
he knew him as well as he cared to; for Bathgate 
was one of the young spriglings of wealth whose 
idea of a pleasurable existence was to become 
171 


The Fullback 


intoxicated as often as he could. He affected a 
broad English intonation and was about as hope- 
less a snob as any university could produce — - 
which is saying a great deal against young Bath- 
gate. 

Tom would like to have seen Louise. He had 
counted upon having a long talk with her. But 
evidently she had not. And she was going to live 
in the same house and upon friendly terms with 
‘‘Chappie’’ Bathgate! But here Tom’s sense of 
fairness came to his rescue. She had never met 
the boy and was a friend of her Vassar classmate 
only. She was of the sort who would see clearly 
through Bathgate, who would instantly assign him 
to a definite category. 

None the less, he had looked forward to the 
girl’s return so that he might tell her of what he 
had done and what he hoped to do. He did not 
realize until Mr. Middleton told him of her in- 
tentions just what a part her influence had played 
in his life at Haledon. 


172 


CHAPTER X 

Out for the Varsity Eleven 



iHE summer in Annandale was uneventful. 


X Mr. Slocum, the branch manager of the 
railroad connecting Annandale with Blaines- 
ville, so arranged matters that Tom could work 
in the local freight station, thus enabling him to 
stay in the village. The wages were something of 
an improvement over those paid to a head of a 
section gang, so that Tom was able to lay by a 
fair sum of money. 

He and his father were together during most of 
their spare time, and the summer passed happily 
and quickly. Tom had a great deal of freight to 
handle, and the big muscles under his shoulders 
seemed to broaden week by week. In the evenings 
after dinner some of the high-school boys would 
come up to the cottage, and Tom would produce 
the shining new football which Mr. Meriwether, 
the Haledon football coach, had given him when 
he went West. 

‘‘Do a lot of punting and drop kicking with it,” 
said Meriwether, “and don’t forget to spend a 


173 


The Fullback 


little time every day forward passing. Good as 
you are, it won’t hurt the best of us to im- 
prove.” 

The coach in speaking had in mind Tom’s 
work in the two days he had been able to devote 
to the spring practise of football candidates. 
The others had spent two weeks on the gridiron, 
but Tom, unable to spare this amount of time, 
had merely gone out on two afternoons in order 
that Meriwether might get some line on his 
ability. It might be said that the coach was 
abundantly satisfied with what he saw. 

In the middle of August Tom received a letter 
from Meriwether requesting him to report for 
practise with the squad early in September, two 
weeks before the university was to open. 

‘‘We have our first game against Soho College 
on the 25th as you know, and as that eleven will 
be unusually strong we want to be pretty well to- 
gether by the time they appear. Of course, noth- 
ing is sure in this world, but you have as good a 
chance as any back I know of making the var- 
sity, so I want you on hand.” 

Tom made his plans accordingly, and left 
Annandale for Haledon on the first day of the 
month which, as it chanced, was Labor Day. He 
was in far better spirits than when he had taken 

174 


Out for the Varsity Eleven 

his departure the previous year, for then he was 
facing utter uncertainty and had no idea what 
would happen. But now he was surer of his 
ground and, moreover, the distressing problem of 
financial stress was well on the way to solution. 

^‘One thing you can count upon, father,” he 
said in bidding Timothy Kerry good-by, ‘‘and 
that is ril be back for Christmas this year. 
That’s the surest thing you know — and you 
needn’t bother about buying a Christmas dinner. 
This year the feast will be on me.” 

The captain of the eleven, who lived in Chicago, 
happened to be on the train which Tom caught 
out of Columbus. He was a big fellow, a tackle, 
a man whose game and whose manliness Tom 
had admired the previous year. He greeted Tom 
like a lost brother, and the two spent the day and 
a part of the night together in the club car. 
When they separated to retire to their respective 
sleeping-cars the captain, Jerry Ogden, faced Tom 
with his vivid smile. 

“Tom,” he said, “I haven’t said anything be- 
fore, but I want you to know how glad I am that 
you’re going to be with us on the squad this year, 
not alone because I think you’ll make the team 
and be of great value to us, but because I watched 
your career at Haledon last year and am proud 

175 


The Fullback 


to have a man of your sort working with me for 
the honor of the old place.” 

Tom nodded silently and gripped Ogden’s hand 
hard. Several boys had said the same thing to 
him before he left Haledon, and he had always 
been at loss for a reply, because, as he saw it, 
what he had done had been for himself alone. 
He had simply been obliged to work and get 
along, and while he believed he was entitled to 
credit from himself, he could not understand why 
he should receive it from others. He began to 
have the feeling that aside from his desire to play 
football he ought to do so because of a certain 
duty to the university. This came while he lay 
in his berth, Ogden’s kindly words still in his 
mind. It was rather a vague thought but, in- 
definite though it was, it marked the beginning 
of a subtle change in his attitude toward Hale- 
don. 

The university seemed strangely deserted when 
he and Ogden stepped off the train. No one but 
the station-master was on the platform, and the 
university buildings and the trees which rose 
above them seemed to be steeped in slumber. 
The day was warm and the sunlight heavy. The 
railroad man smiled broadly. 

“How do you do, Mr. Ogden.” He approached 
176 


Out for the Varsity Eleven 

with outstretched hand. ‘‘Most of the boys are 
already here. Meriwether was down to the sta- 
tion this morning asking about your train. He 
tells me the line looks good, but he’s worried 
about the backfield.” 

Ogden laughed. 

“Oh, Merry always has to worry about some- 
thing. Come on, Tom, we’ll slope down to the 
field-house and see what’s doing.” 

There they found the coach and two of his as- 
sistants seated at ease on the veranda, while 
lounging about on the steps and on the grass 
were a score of stalwart young fellows looking 
up at Meriwether, who was in the middle of one 
of his characteristic orations. 

“Fundamentals! There’s where we lost out 
last year. They simply couldn’t be driven into 
the team. Now, fundamentals to a Haledon man 
— hello, Jerry, hello, Tom Kerry; sit down and 
listen — now, fundamentals to a Haledon man 
mean defensive and offensive line charge, unerr- 
ing tackling, following the ball, absence of fum- 
bling, getting down the field well under punts, and 
using the hands on defense. If we’d had these 
essentials last year we could have played Shel- 
burne to a standstill and probably have beaten 
Baliol. This year, by heck I the team is going to 
177 


The Fullback 

learn these things if we never get any further. 
Eh, Jerry?” 

‘‘Right, Merry.” Ogden gestured significantly 
to the coach who left his chair and went into the 
coach’s room followed by the captain. They re- 
mained in seclusion until lunch-time, and, as 
practise was not to be held until three o’clock, 
Tom found occasion to wander about the uni- 
versity, calling upon his former landlady, Mrs. 
Allison, and upon Professor Witherspoon and his 
wife. 

The manager of the eleven had arranged for 
meals to be served in the athletic club until col- 
lege opened, but accepted the Witherspoons’ 
invitation and remained there for his midday 
meal. He went around to the field-house to dress 
about two-thirty and found the room filled with 
candidates for the team, some forty men in all. 
Some of them were veteran varsity players, others 
were scrub and second-string men, while still 
others were regulars from last year’s freshman 
team. There were boys from almost every well- 
known preparatory school in the East and from 
various States. Tom noticed a disposition on the 
part of the preparatory-school players to form 
themselves into cliques, leaving those who had 
come from less-known seats of secondary learning, 
178 


Out for the Varsity Eleven 

such as high schools and the like, to get along as 
best they could. Later he was to find that this 
extended to Haledon’s great rival elevens, Shel- 
burne and Baliol; was to find that scattered among 
the teams of these three universities were boys 
who perhaps had played side by side on the same 
preparatory-school outfits. This, of course, re- 
sulted in some display of fraternal regard, keen 
though the rivalry was. Not that anything ever 
occurred to make Tom or the others uncomfort- 
able; it was merely that a bond seemed to exist 
in which they were not included. 

But, after all, the game was the main thing and 
Tom intended to show a lot of these Haledon 
players, as well as those of Baliol and Shelburne, 
that training at a well-known preparatory school 
was not at all an essential to ability on the grid- 
iron. 

It was this thought probably that lent extra 
strength to Tom’s punts when, with several other 
kickers, he was stationed in the middle of the 
field and ordered to send kicks to the other 
players. One of the men at his side had done 
the punting for the varsity last season and had 
not done it any too well. But he had improved 
during the summer and was getting away long, 
floating fifty-yard punts. But Tom’s drives were 
179 


The Fullback 


lower and they went farther. He did not raise 
them over twenty-five feet into the air and they 
spiralled down the field like bullets. He averaged 
fifty-five yards with them, and the players found 
them extremely difficult to catch. In fact, as 
Meriwether stormed and raved, punt after punt 
from Tom’s toe was dropped. 

He and his assistants, who were in uniform, 
finally stationed themselves in the backfield, and, 
after catching several of Tom’s drives, ascertained 
the cause of the fumbles. 

‘Ht’s simply that they come with a spiral and 
thus come hard, boys,” said the coach. “You 
can’t take them as you would an ordinary punt, 
in a basket formed of your arms and body. You’ve 
got to meet them with your hands, as you would 
a basket-ball, and then ease them into your body. 
See?” He stretched out his hands and seized 
one of Tom’s punts just as a man grasps a for- 
ward pass, and then brought the ball immediately 
into the hollow of his waist. “That’s the only 
way to take them,” he added, hurling the leather 
back toward the kicker. 

As the net result of the light practise for the 
day Meriwether believed his backfield problem 
to be solved. Tom could place his line drives to 
perfection, and when he was ordered to raise 
i8o 


Out for the Varsity Eleven 

them and try for distance, he frequently sent the 
pigskin sixty yards in the air. In forward passing 
he threw the ball from a dead run on a line in any 
direction, and, in fact, gave every indication of 
proving to be one of the stars of the year, and 
by far the best back Haledon had had since the 
immortal ‘‘Hammie” Tomlinson. After a run 
around the field, Meriwether dismissed the men, 
enjoining them neither to smoke nor to drink 
from then on. 

Hal Middleton joined the squad next day and 
found that he had to fight for the position of half- 
back against two varsity men of the preceding 
year, not to mention two good backfield men who 
had played on his class team, and one stocky, 
lightning-fast player who had been ineligible the 
previous year because of defective scholarship. 
As for this man, Maher, Tom himself felt that he 
must be on his guard, since the fellow was a fine 
runner, a strong punter, and more than fair at 
forward passing. 

The third day of practise, Tom found an an- 
nouncement in the dressing-room that scrimmage 
would be held for the first time; he found his 
name bracketed to the fullback position on the 
first eleven. Hal was named as a half on the 
second team, and Maher was to play at full. 
i8i 


The Fullback 


‘‘Well/’ Hal laughingly slapped Tom on the 
back as the two stood reading Meriwether’s 
notice, “it appears that we are to be enemies 
still. I had looked forward to playing with 
you.” 

“You will, old man,” Tom replied earnestly. 
“If you haven’t got it on Hammond, I don’t know 
anything about football.” 

“Thanks. We’ll see.” Hal shrugged and left 
for the gridiron, swinging his head-guard discon- 
solately. 

The varsity was placed on defense and the 
second team with the ball in the middle of the 
field was ordered to advance by rushes. Two of 
the tackles on the second eleven were from the 
freshman team, and, as one came from Andover 
and the other from Exeter, they were more than 
partially familiar with the possibilities of offen- 
sive, as well as defensive, line play. 

On the first play, a turn just off right tackle, 
both offensive tackles succeeded in getting the 
jump on their opponents, the result being an in- 
stantaneous hole in the right side through which 
Hal Middleton darted like a hare. Tom, hurrying 
in to do secondary defense work, saw Hal come 
through and was diving for him when he felt his 
legs go from under and he landed sprawling on 
182 


Out for the Varsity Eleven 

the turf. Hal was tackled by the quarterback 
twenty yards from where the play started. 

The coach, hurrying up, stopped the play. 

‘^Who let that man through ? You, wasn’t 
it?” he asked, pointing to one of the brawny 
varsity tackles. ‘‘I thought so,” he went on. 
“It’s your old fault; you let Parker get the jump 
on you. You’ve got to be more lively on the 
charge. And don’t crouch so stiffly that you 
can’t move. Get a jumpy, resilient pose, and 
charge the instant the signal to snap the ball is 
given, not an instant after it.” He turned to 
Tom. 

“You, Kerry, should have nailed the runner. 
You had no idea at all that that other tackle 
was coming through to smash up the secondary. 
It doesn’t happen on high-school teams, I know. 
But you’re on a varsity eleven now. If you want 
to stay there keep your eyes open and your brain 
working.” 

Tom flushed. He had never before been pub- 
licly criticised in a game of any kind. As a con- 
sequence he did not know precisely how to take it. 
None the less, his innate judicial instinct told him 
that the coach’s rebuke was merited. He nodded 
therefore. 

“Yes, sir,” he said. 


183 


The Fullback 


Meriwether glanced for a second at the back’s 
flushed face, as though studying him. But he 
said nothing more to Tom. 

‘'All right.” The coach clapped his hands. 
“Line up where the ball was downed. And, 
varsity, remember — quicker on the charge.” 

Hal grinned at Tom, who nodded back at him, 
filled with grim determination that his friend 
would not smile so genially if he came through 
the line on the next play. But the next two 
plays were directed at either end and were 
squelched by the first team’s veteran wing men. 
Then as the ball was snapped the second team’s 
guard and tackle jammed the defensive tackle 
down to the turf, while Maher, leaping through 
the position thus vacated, lowered his head for a 
bull rush to a first down, when Tom, slamming 
in to plug the hole, struck him with a driving 
tackle. It was a fearful collision. Maher went 
backward upon the prostrate centre, letting go the 
ball, while Tom, slowly arising, dazedly watched 
the struggle for the elusive oval. 

The backfield coach, Marvin, hurried up with 
a broad grin, slapping Tom on the back. 

“That was a real tackle, Kerry,” he cried. 

But Tom was gazing down at the prostrate 
Maher. 


184 


Out for the Varsity Eleven 

“I didn’t mean to tackle him so hard,” he 
said. He leaned down over the player, who, having 
recovered his lost wind, was beginning to look 
about him. “How are you, old man.?” 

Upon Maher’s pale face there came a grin. 
Tom never forgot that. It gave him a lesson in 
one of the deeper elements of sportsmanship, 
that of taking a hard knock gamely and cheer- 
fully. 

“All right, old boy. That was a peach of a 
tackle. Your shoulder hit me right where I live.” 

The coach was now at their side, frowning. 

“Come on, come on,” he cried. “This is no 
time for pink-tea apologies. Get up and play 
football, and play it hard.” 

Tom arose, wondering if the coach had it in for 
him, but, remembering the impartiality with 
which Meriwether scattered his compliments and 
criticisms, he decided not. 

The second team was then ordered to punt, 
and Tom played in the backfield with the quarter 
to receive the kicks. Here he shone to great ad- 
vantage, or, at least, he felt that he did after 
weaving his way through a broken field for forty 
yards on the first return. 

But Meriwether was not altogether satisfied. 

“Kerry,” he said, after Middleton had brought 

185 


The Fullback 


him to earth, ‘‘you must never carry the ball on 
the side toward the tackier. You mustn’t do it 
in the open field or going into the line; it means 
fumbles. And as you caught the ball near the 
side-lines, you should have gone up that route 
and not veered into the field where you were sure 
to run into a bunch of tacklers. Always play the 
side-lines when you can.” 

“Maher,” he continued, turning to the full- 
back of the other team, “you gave Kerry a chance 
by placing that punt where it was difficult for 
any tackier to get him. Look out for that.” 

And thus throughout the afternoon the prac- 
tise went on, man after man of either eleven being 
excused and sent to the shower to make way for 
other candidates whom Meriwether and his staff 
of half a dozen coaches wished to see in action. 

Tom and Hal left the field at the same time. 

“Hal, you played good football to-day.” Tom 
was splashing luxuriously in the warm shower, his 
hand gingerly shoving the water-crank to cold. 
“I could see that Meriwether liked you.” 

“I hope so. I certainly tried hard.” Hal 
grinned. “It’s something different from prep- 
school football, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, they check up every point. I begin to 
feel that I don’t know anything about the game.” 
i86 


Out for the Varsity Eleven 

good way to feel, Kerry/’ Jerry Ogden, 
the captain, had just come in for his bath, ‘‘None 
of us knows it all even after two years on the var- 
sity. Good work, Middleton — I liked your game 
to-day.” 

“Thanks.” The captain was too great a man 
for familiar conversation, Hal decided, so he 
continued his ablutions in silence. Tom, too, was 
mindful of the fact that the football season had 
started and that Ogden was endowed with a 
certain dignity attaching to his position which 
precluded anything approaching the easy rela- 
tions which had marked their journey from the 
West. 

“Did Louise have a good time at the Bath- 
gates’?” Tom asked Hal when the two left the 
dressing-room and started on their way to the 
athletic club. 

“Corking,” replied Hal. “I met her roommate. 
Miss Bathgate, at the dance last spring. She’s 
the smoothest girl you ever saw. As for her 
brother. Chappie Bathgate ” 

“What about him?” asked Tom. 

“Oh, nothing, but he’s got the worst sort of a 
crush on Louise. The pup came up to Kenne- 
bunkport after Louise had finished her visit, and 
stayed for two or three weeks.” 

187 


The Fullback 


‘‘Chappie Bathgate!” exclaimed Tom, a hot 
wave passing over him. “And — and Louise ? ” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hal replied with brotherly 
indifference. “He’s very wealthy and clever and 
has slues of money, and girls don’t seem to 
notice things about other fellows that you or I 
or any other chap would notice. I don’t know 
why, but they just don’t seem to.” Hal laughed 
and shrugged. “Now, if I were a girl I just 
couldn’t stand a geezer like Bathgate about, even 
if his people are socially prominent in New York 
and he has plenty of money.” 

“I should say not.” Tom paused. “And how 
— how — I mean did Louise seem to have a crush, 
too.?” 

“No, she was just natural — liked him as she 
would any fellow who was out to give her a good 
time. Gee, I’m hungry.” 

Tom followed his friend’s lead in breaking off 
the subject; none the less he was profoundly dis- 
turbed over the matter. He had not realized 
what a part Louise occupied in his life until Hal 
spoke of Bathgate’s friendship with her. How 
could a girl hold her ideals and yet be willing 
to tolerate a whiffet like his classmate? Tom 
wondered about this until the thought came that 
perhaps she was actuated by a desire to reform 
i88 


Out for the Varsity Eleven 

him and have him take the part in life to which 
his position after graduation would entitle him. 

He knew enough of boys of his age to know how 
Chappie Bathgate would sigh and frown over 
his wasted life — for Louise’s edification — and how 
he would seek to place her under obligation by 
swearing at her behest that never again would he 
be such a devil of a fellow, but would mend his 
ways and grow to be a fine, pure, strong, moral 
man. It was disgusting. 

In his room that night Tom went over the 
whole matter impartially and decided that his 
repugnance as to Louise’s association with 
Bathgate was not so disinterested as he would 
have himself believe. As a matter of fact, he 
was profoundly disturbed, had never in his life 
received quite such a jolt as was contained in 
Hal’s announcement. 

This meant that his regard for the girl was 
deeper than he had realized. As for her, she liked 
him and, as she had often shown, admired him; 
but that was all he could honestly say. So far 
as that went, he had believed his attitude to be 
similar. Now he knew differently. 

He had never looked into the future so far as 
Louise was concerned. At least he had never 
thought of relating his future to hers, but now 
189 


The Fullback 


he came to realize that throughout the past few 
years he must have tacitly accepted their com- 
radeship as something that would endure for life. 
And now with the entrance of Bathgate, with 
the entrance of men yet to come, he could see 
how fragile a structure this friendship was. She 
was a girl, and being so their relations in a very 
few years now must either be vastly more or 
vastly less than they were to-day. 

But what position was he now in to have any 
hope for the future concerning Louise Middle- 
ton ? He had his way to make, and this would 
be a matter of years. He had estimated that the 
next ten years would be required to see him fairly 
upon his feet, striding toward success. And the 
attainment of even his minor ambitions would 
only begin to come in still another decade. 

Tom sighed and tossed restlessly in his bed. 

“IVe been dreaming for two or three years,” 
he muttered. ‘H guess it’s time I woke up.” 

Thereafter whenever Louise came into his mind 
he forced her out with grim intensity of purpose. 
One day soon after college opened he received a 
letter from her. It was full of blithe friendliness, 
was an answer to a letter he had written her the 
preceding summer. 

He received it the day he was to play his first 
190 


Out for the Varsity Eleven 

game as a member of the Haledon varsity, and 
as a consequence he was in a mood more highly 
keyed than usual. Instead, therefore, of going 
off by himself and reading the letter several 
times, he glanced swiftly over it and then hastily 
tore it up. So much, he thought, for a rather 
foolish past. 

Thus, manlike, he paid Louise Middleton for 
the disagreeable emotions which a rather insig- 
nificant young man named Gerald Braithewaite 
Van Loon Bathgate had inspired in him. 


CHAPTER XI 


The Opening Game 

HE university opened with the usual sights 



X and sounds, and Tom was interested to ob- 
serve the incoming freshmen, marking in their 
demeanor some reflection of what he himself had 
felt when he first entered the classic precincts. 
But there was little enough time to be devoted to 
such matters, because in addition to his football 
practise he had to set on foot the plans he had 
made for earning sufficient money in his sopho- 
more year to place him in the same satisfactory 
financial position, as a junior, which he now oc- 
cupied. 

He began, too, to take an interest in the nev/s- 
papers of the metropolis and near-by cities, in 
which almost every day he found some reference 
to himself as a football player. Meriwether and 
the backfield coach found unceasing fault with 
him, but he had begun to realize that their words 
were chiefly intended to polish the rough edges of 
his natural ability as well as to give the team the 
feeling that no one man was better than the other. 
A training-table had been formed and Tom was 


192 


The Opening Game 

one of some eighteen players who were honored 
with seats at this board. There would be more 
added as the season advanced, and, as may be be- 
lieved, this was a stimulus to all the candidates. 

In the evenings after dinner the players would 
gather in the big hall, while Meriwether, standing 
before a blackboard, pointer in hand, would dem- 
onstrate the theory of plays which had already 
been given the men, as well as plays to come, for 
which the coach wished to prepare the players men- 
tally. Tom gave his mind as intently to these 
blackboard talks as he did to his lessons, and 
he absorbed everything. He was learning how 
technical the game was, and this appealed to him 
quite as strongly as the actual play on the field. 
Meriwether, seeing this, frequently called upon 
Tom to elucidate points he had raised in order 
that the others might have a clear conception of 
what he had been trying to convey. This because 
he had found Tom to have powers of simple, lucid 
exposition which he sometimes felt he lacked. 

For example, on the evening before the first 
game, that with Soho College, Meriwether ad- 
dressed a squad of twenty-five men on the tactics 
of the morrow’s contest. 

“We haven’t been able to do much with an 
offense as yet, fellows,” he said, “because you 

193 


The Fullback 


haven’t come on as I should have liked — still, I 
shouldn’t have given you anything beyond the 
few simple plays you have anyway. You’ll put 
them over all right, and that’s all I ask. (Meri- 
wether never believed in saying anything to dis- 
courage his men just before a game.) But we 
have a good defense, and we’ll need it, because 
Soho has been gunning for big game for the past 
few years and they’re coming here to gain capital 
by scoring if not winning the game. Now, they’re 
not going to win — but I don’t want them to score 
either. But you’ll have to work to prevent them. 
Sanborn, their coach, has given them a lot of 
brainstorm plays, no doubt, and they’ve got a 
strong line. But you play your defense and you’ll 
hold them safe. Now, I’ve been trying to beat 
the correct principles of defensive play into your 
heads and I’m going to ask Tom Kerry to sum 
them up, just to see if he has caught the whole 
thing. Go ahead, Tom.” 

‘‘Well,” Tom smiled diffidently and arose, 
“there are three lines of defense, and each line 
has three things to do. First, this line — I am re- 
ferring to the forwards now — this line charges 
through from a half a yard to two yards, keeping 
their heads up. Second, they find the ball and 
the play. Third, they get their bodies across it.” 

194 


The Opening Game 

‘‘All right,” nodded the coach, “go on.” 

“The second line of defense — I mean the backs 
playing secondary to the line — locate the play 
first of all They don’t move until they locate 
it ” 

“That means,” interrupted Meriwether, “they 
don’t move when they think they’ve found the 
trend of the play, but when they know they have. 
Catch it, men.?” As all nodded, the coach ges- 
tured to Tom to go on. 

“Secondly,” Tom continued, “they get to the 
ball and, thirdly, they make the tackle, and at 
all times they keep an eye out for the opposing 
linesmen or others whose duty it is to come through 
and mess up the secondary defense. The third 
line of defense — ^the man or men lying back for 
kicks or forward passes — locate the play and jog 
carefully in the direction from which the ball is 
coming.” 

“All right, Tom.” Meriwether turned to the 
blackboard. “Now, I’m going to run over that 
play where we get four eligible men through on 
the forward pass.” 

Thus an hour was passed and then the men 
went to their rooms to study their lessons for the 
morrow. 

When Tom got to the athletic club for luncheon 

195 


The Fullback 


next day he found the coaches’ room filled with 
old-time stars who had come to town to look 
over the new team in its first game. There were, 
besides, a famous Baliol and a famous Shelburne 
veteran, both members of the coaching staflFs of 
these universities, who had come down to scout 
Haledon. All through the season these two men 
would sit high in the stand, note-books in their 
hands and follow Haledon’s course throughout 
the season, noting the assortment of plays, who 
participated in them, the average amount of 
ground gained by each play, the distance of punts, 
and, in fact, everything that would be of assistance 
to Baliol’s and Shelburne’s head coaches when 
the time came to prepare their teams for the con- 
tests against Haledon. 

There had been years when scouts worked in 
secret and took care not to disclose their presence 
on alien fields. But all that had passed, and the 
system was recognized and condoned. Haledon 
had her scouts at Baliol and Shelburne. No one 
liked the system, but all went in for it. 

Tom noted that Meriwether and his assistants 
were conversing with the scouts upon the easiest 
terms, and later learned that Meriwether and the 
Baliol man had played side by side on the same 
preparatory-school eleven, and had later opposed 
196 


The Opening Game 

each other as rival linesmen on the university 
teams. Among others lunching in the coaches* 
room were three football critics of the metro- 
politan press, whose impressions of Haledon 
would appear in next morning’s papers. Tom, 
who had not yet discovered that these men could 
but base impressions of the future upon present 
facts, and often find themselves mistaken — as is 
the case with all associated with football, players, 
coaches, and critics alike — ^was tremendously in- 
terested in the writers, who did little talking but 
seemed to be keeping their eyes and ears open. 
He wondered what they would have to say about 
him next day. 

The team lunched by themselves, the captain 
at the head of the table. Jerry Ogden was a big, 
earnest man, whose influence upon the eleven was 
great. He was solid. He said little except when 
it was necessary, but upon such occasions he spoke 
to the point. All could see that the coach de- 
ferred to him a lot, and this helped his standing 
with the men. The previous year, as he recalled 
the gossip, the captain had attempted to be both 
coach and captain with the result that he had 
wrecked the team. 

It was an eventful moment when, as the squad 
grouped itself in the hallway of the field-house, 
197 


The Fullback 


the doors were flung open and Ogden, the ball 
under his arm, looked back, calling: ‘‘Come on, 
fellows/’ 

The Soho team was already on the field and 
they were a hulking lot in their red jerseys and 
stockings and bulging moleskin breeches. 

‘‘They look heavier than we do,” said Hal, as 
he dashed across the turf at Tom’s side. 

Tom, whose fighting blood always began to 
boil as soon as he saw an opponent, shook his head 
grimly. 

“They’ll only fall the harder, Hal.” 

As a matter of fact, Soho had no intention of 
falling. They had been practising together on a 
farm since August and were out to win. Several 
hundred of their supporters had accompanied the 
team to cheer it on to victory, and while they were 
lost in the gigantic walls of the amphitheatre 
they made enough noise for several thousand. 
The Haledon undergraduate body was massed on 
the opposite side of the field and responded in 
kind. 

It was all very stirring to Tom, who, however, 
had little time for gathering impressions as the 
voice of the little shock-headed quarterback, 
Allen, was barking them into action. As the 
team, in obedience to his summons, formed for a 
198 


The Opening Game 

bit of signal practise, Allen bent behind the centre 
and snapped out a series of numerals. After a 
play or two the coach set Tom and Maher at 
work driving punts down the field, while Ogden 
and the Soho captain gathered in a little group 
about the officials. 

The game that followed was surprising — sur- 
prising because of Soho’s strength. Allen had 
been instructed to punt upon the first or second 
down at all times when Haledon was inside her 
own forty-yard line, and the Soho backfield thus 
was early put to the test in the matter of catch- 
ing punts. The trouble was that they caught 
the balls beautifully; one little tow-headed chap 
in particular seemed unable to muff Tom’s 
spirals and, moreover, he zigzagged his way back 
for goodly gains more than once. This was prin- 
cipally because Tom was outkicking his ends; 
they could not seem to get down under his punts. 
When Tom placed his kicks, as he often did, the 
ball bounding out of reach of the defending backs, 
they seemed to have time to run back, retrieve 
them, and then advance. 

With the ball thus in hand, Soho found she 
could do nothing in the way of a running attack, 
and therefore punted. 

As Soho’s punter could get no such distance as 
199 


The Fullback 


Tom, Soho repeatedly lost ground, and at length 
Haledon secured possession of the ball on her 
opponent’s thirty-five-yard line. Here was a 
good opportunity to unhook a running offense. 
Allen’s first signal called for Tom to take the 
ball just outside tackle. But the man through 
whom the play was to go was late in his charge 
and when Tom hit the line he found himself 
running up his own tackle’s back. No gain. 
On the next play Harrison, the left halfback, a 
stocky line plunger, went through the right side 
of the line on a cross buck, but dropped the ball 
as he stumbled through to the secondary defense. 
A Soho man fell upon it, and the ball was punted 
out of danger in a jiffy. 

Meriwether lost no time in sending Hal Middle- 
ton in to take Harrison’s place. Tom punted in 
return and sent the ball on a true course to the 
intersection of the side-line and the ten-yard 
mark, where Selby, Haledon’s right end, downed 
the sprightly little Soho quarterback in his tracks. 
Ogden’s voice arose. Here was a time when a 
sharp defense might make a lot of trouble for the 
enemy. Soho’s punter was standing upon his goal- 
line, his hands outstretched, obviously nervous. 

^‘Now then, men,” cried Ogden, ‘‘break through 
and block this punt; do you hear — block it!” 


200 


The Opening Game 

But Soho’s line held and the ball went sailing 
high, but not very far — one of the most difficult 
punts to handle. In fact, as Meriwether had often 
insisted, no attempt should be made to handle it. 
It was much safer to let it hit the ground. But 
Allen lost his head. His first intention was to 
allow it to strike the turf, and then, thinking of 
the opportunity for a fair catch and a consequent 
goal from placement, he raised his hand while 
yet running toward the ball. When he tried to 
catch it the whirling ovoid struck his chest and 
bounded ten feet away, straight into the arms of 
a Soho end, who lost no time in dusting down the 
field toward the Haledon goal. Tom was the 
earliest of all to note the sudden shift in the for- 
tunes of the game and he took after the fleeing 
Soho runner with his graceful, undulating, ante- 
lope gait which carried him over the ground 
like an arrow from a bow. He caught his man 
on the fifteen-yard line and laid him low with a 
flying tackle. 

The Soho crowd was in an uproar. The long 
run had placed Haledon in desperate plight, and 
the Soho players dug their toes into the ground 
with every manifestation of grim intensity of 
purpose. But one line plunge and one attempt 
to circle the end failed. Then a Haledon end 


201 


The Fullback 


knocked down a forward pass over the goal-Hne. 
There was nothing to do but attempt a field-goal. 
The red jerseyed kicker stepped back and with a 
confident smile received the ball and sent it be- 
tween the goal-posts. 

So the half ended with Soho, despised, belittled 
Soho, proud possessor of three points and Hale- 
don with nothing. Meriwether, Jerrems, and 
one or two of the other coaches came into the 
dressing-room while the men were being rubbed. 
Curiously enough, Meriwether was laughing. 

‘‘Gee, fellows, that was funny! I haven't 
laughed so in a year. That Keystone comedy you 
did out there in the first half would make a stone 
image smile. Well, keep on and get licked. Fve 
nothing to say.” But he did have a great deal 
to say. Having exhausted his sardonic humor, 
he passed quietly among the men, pointing out to 
each his faults and paying special attention to 
the quarterback, whose choice of plays he seri- 
ously questioned. 

“Now,” he said in conclusion, “Tm going to 
put Harrison in at half again, but otherwise in 
the first quarter Tm going to keep you all in just 
as you’ve played. In the last quarter Tm going 
to substitute almost every one. Now, since you 
fellows think you’re the first varsity, why go on 
202 


The Opening Game 

out and prove to me that you are. I’ll say this, 
I have my doubts about your being the first 
varsity.” 

The coach’s words and a certain sense of not 
having given their best shamed the team into a 
splendid effort in the third quarter. Ogden 
at left guard and Bell at left tackle found they 
could open holes in that side of the line, and Har- 
rison and Sykes, the two backs, slipped through 
for gain after gain. With the ball on Soho’s 
fifteen-yard line Allen took the ball on a quarter- 
back run through centre and, eluding the back- 
field defense, sped on over the goal-line. 

Several plays later Tom caught the first punt 
which had come to him all day. His arms closed 
upon the ball and, quickly sidestepping, he eluded 
a hurtling end and was off. Tom was heavy, and 
as he advanced he gathered speed. He went by 
three tacklers through a simple change of pace 
and, drawing his hips to one side or the other, and 
then, suddenly altering his course, he sped diag- 
onally across the field, thus avoiding other tacklers 
who had been drawn in the other direction. He 
had now but one man to pass, and as this man was 
dead in front of him Tom had little fear; he knew 
a tackle of this sort was the hardest sort of a 
tackle to make. So he headed straight for the 
203 


The Fullback 


tackier, then shifted abruptly to the right and 
then to the left. When he headed on his straight 
course the tackier was sprawling on the ground 
behind him. He crossed the goal-line for the 
second touch-down and a goal was kicked. 

With the score thus fourteen to three, Meri- 
wether took Tom and several other regulars out 
of the game. He sat in his blanket and watched 
the substitutes who played desperately and, 
finally employing a drop kicker, added three 
points to the total. 

'‘Not so bad, captain,” said Tom to Ogden in 
the dressing-room after the game. 

"No; Tve seen worse,” smiled Jerry Ogden. 
"Just the same I hate to think what Meriwether 
will say to us. It’s hard to satisfy him at best, 
and I’m afraid we were far from our best to-day.” 

"I thought it wasn’t so bad for a first game.” 
Allen, the quarterback, had come up at the mo- 
ment. "We had a pretty good punch in the sec- 
ond half when we marched down the field.” 
He glanced at Tom. "That was a cracking broken 
field run of yours, Kerry.” 

"Oh, I don’t know; I had fine interference after 
I passed midfield.” 

"So you did,” was Ogden’s comment, "but it 
was a great dash just the same. Those Soho 
204 


The Opening Game 

tacklers were no slouches let me tell you.” He 
shrugged. ‘‘At all events, we’ll hear things from 
the coach.” 

Whatever Meriwether might say later, at the 
moment, as it happened, he was feeling in rather 
good spirits. The game was over and he had 
waited for Edwards, the Baliol scout, to come 
down from the stand. Now the two were walking 
across the field together. 

“Who’s that blond fullback you’ve got ?” asked 
the Baliol man, with an attempt at indifFerence 
which did not hoodwink Meriwether. 

“Oh, he’s a sophomore, a freshman last year. 
He didn’t play on the freshman team because 
he had to stick to the job of working his way 
through. What do you think of him?” Meri- 
wether’s manner was also indifiPerent. 

“Pretty good,” was the reply. 

Meriwether stopped suddenly in his tracks 
and laughed, at the same time slapping his friend 
on the back. 

^'Pretty goody eh ! Well, I’m certainly glad 
you think he’s pretty good. Charlie, do you 
want to know how good / think he is ? Well, I’ll 
say this : two to one for any sum up to a hundred 
dollars that he’s named as All-American full by a 
majority of the critics this year.” 

205 


The Fullback 


But Edwards shook his head, smiling. 

“No, thanks. Ell take your word for it. Where 
does he come from.?” 

“Oh, he’s a high-school boy from Ohio. One 
of these Middle Western farmer chaps, I guess. 
What do you think of us as a whole?” 

“H’m,” was the reply, “I guess you’ll have a 
team. Looks better than your last year outfit.” 

“I think so, too.” Meriwether chuckled. 
“There’s more real football ability on the squad 
this year, that’s a fact. Needs a lot of develop- 
ment, naturally. But the stuff is there. I’m 
sweet on my backfield for the first time in two 
years. And I’m not worrying much about the 
line.” 

Edwards nodded and turned away toward the 
railroad station. Meriwether kept on to the 
field-house, straightening out the genial lines in 
his face and frowning deeply as he entered the 
door. 

“Fellows,” he said, mounting one of the low 
stools, “gather about me.” The men, some 
dressed, some not dressed, others partially dressed, 
grouped about him, their faces upturned to his. 

“Men,” cried the coach, “I’ve been coaching 
Haledon teams for four years now. Before that I 
coached teams in the West. Before that I played 
206 


The Opening Game 

on Haledon. I want to tell you that of all rotten 
football elevens you take the prize. I never saw 
such an exhibition as you gave to-day. I just 
walked across the field with Edwards, of Baliol, 
and he says he’s going to suggest to his people 
that they prepare entirely with the Shelburne 
game in mind. That’s what he thought. Now, 
are you fellows going to fool him .? Or are you 
going to muddle through the season as you did 
to-day, forgetting everything you’ve ever tried 
to learn For heaven’s sake, take yourselves seri- 
ously. That’s all. I’m done with you all for to- 
day.” 

He descended from his improvised rostrum and 
walked moodily out of the building. 


207 


CHAPTER XII 


Ineligible 


OM KERRY received the honor of election 



i as president of his class the third week 
after college opened, and although still an under 
classman became one of the marked men about 
the campus. This did not upset him a bit. He 
was naturally uplifted by the signal honor which 
some three hundred of his classmates had paid 
him, but he did not forget that his career at Hale- 
don depended upon his ability to make money, 
and what with his football, his studies, and his 
outside work he was busy night and day. He 
was invited to become a member of a Greek-letter 
society which sent its men to two of the best 
upper-class societies, but he declined the honor, 
not through any socialistic affectation, but simply 
because he had no time and did not feel he could 
afford the extra expense involved. 

Hal informed his sister of Tom’s election and 
she at once wrote him a cordial note of con- 
gratulation. 

“Our dear prexy recently said to us that the 


208 


Ineligible 

girl who gets along well in college will get along 
equally well in life,” she wrote. ‘‘I am sure that 
applies to men as well. It’s a sign, Tom. I just 
shouted when I read Hal’s letter. I can’t help 
thinking how proud your father will be. You 
know, of course, how proud I am.” 

That letter lifted Tom to the heights and he 
answered it at once. When he read over his first 
reply he tore it up. He wrote another and tore it 
up. Finally he wrote simply this: 

“Louise, your letter was a corker. I wonder 
if you realize how much it helps ? ” 

Then he went down to the football field and 
clemeaned himself like a dervish. 

It was after the first important game against 
Oxford — Haledon’s annual “test” contest, which 
she won handily — ^that unpleasant rumors began 
to circulate through the intercollegiate world. 
One heard them in the dressing-rooms of the 
important elevens and in the university clubs of 
New York. Students talked with shrugged shoul- 
ders. They concerned Tom Kerry. 

Enoch Chase first heard it when he came on 
East to see Haledon play the Oxford contest. 
He dropped into the Haledon Club in New York 
the Friday before the game and met several old 
comrades of the gridiron. 

209 


The Fullback 


Naturally the talk led to Kerry, whose reputa- 
tion was growing swiftly. 

“Yes,"’ sighed Badgley, *‘he looks to be a 
world beater. I saw him play in the Purdy game. 
But Pm afraid he’s going to be a flivver. There’s 
talk he is a pro.” 

‘‘A professional!” Chase glared at the man. 
‘^Well, don’t you be fooled. I’ve known Kerry 
for three years. In fact, I dug him up and sent 
him here. He’s straight as a string. Who says 
he’s a professional.?” 

^‘Oh, no one in particular. I was in the Baliol 
Club for dinner the other night, and they were 
all joshing me about Kerry. No one had any- 
thing definite. But it’s sort of in the air.” 

‘Ts it 1” growled Chase. ‘‘Well, that’s where it 
will always be.” 

It was just about the same time that Tom was 
hurrying to the Athletic Department oflJces in 
answer to a hurry call from Meriwether. 

“Tom,” said the coach, “I’ve been hearing all 
sorts of talk lately from outside coaches that 
you’re not eligible to play on an undergraduate 
team.” 

“What?” Tom’s eyes blazed and his body 
stiffened rigidly. 

“Read this.” Meriwether tossed Tom an 


210 


Ineligible 

anonymous letter, which stated merely that Tom 
had no business playing on the Haledon eleven. 

‘‘It’s postmarked Shelburne,” continued the 
coach. “Now, what about it.?” 

“It’s a plain lie, that’s all,” asserted Tom. 

“I see.” Meriwether nodded. “I thought as 
much, because you impress me as one of the 
straightest chaps I’ve ever known. Now here — ” 
he reached up and took from a shelf a paper- 
covered pamphlet containing the constitution of 
the Haledon University Athletic Association. 
“Now listen, Tom,” he proceeded, “while I read 
you this clause from our rules concerning eligibil- 
ity.” He cleared his throat and read: 

“ ‘No professional athlete and no man who has 
ever received any pecuniary reward or any emolu- 
ment whatsoever by reason of his connection with 
athletics, such as receiving board for playing sum- 
mer baseball, coaching, or acting as a teacher in 
any branch of athletics whatever, shall represent 
Haledon on any athletic team or crew.’ Are you 
perfectly square on all this stuff, Tom.?” 

“I most certainly am. I swear it.” Tom 
raised his hand in his earnestness. 

“All right.” Meriwether sighed with relief. 
“There’s always a lot of talk about professional- 
ism that no one can trace to its source. If you’re 


2II 


The Fullback 

all clear you don’t have to worry a bit. And I 
won’t.” 

‘‘It’s postmarked at Shelburne,” Tom re- 
marked. “But it isn’t from any one connected 
with the team.” 

“Of course not. Anything of that sort would 
come through official channels. You go ahead 
and play football.” 

If some readers may marvel at Meriwether’s 
failure to put Tom through a detailed cross- 
examination, it might be explained that while 
Meriwether would have dismissed Tom from the 
squad if he were aware he was a professional, yet 
he did not wish to look for trouble, particularly 
in the case of his most valuable player. And, 
besides, he was perfectly satisfied as to the in- 
nate honesty of the young man’s character. 

As a matter of fact, all sorts of charges con- 
cerning eligibility of players drift into the pos- 
session of coaches of important football elevens, 
and some of the information is fairly well backed 
by proof, circumstantial if not direct. But there 
is an unwritten code among the coaches which 
causes them to withhold action in any such case. 
For example, Meriwether was well aware that a 
member of an important rival eleven was in col- 
lege on the virtue of money advanced to that 


212 


Ineligible 

player on notes — ^which would never fall due. 
But he never said anything to reveal that knowl- 
edge, just as the coaches of Shelburne and Baliol 
would probably take no action in Tom’s case, 
even were they equipped with proof of his ineligi- 
bility. It is a sad state of affairs, but it exists, or 
rather did exist in Tom’s time. 

But when matters of the sort reached the ears 
of the faculty athletic authorities the situation 
was different. Tom’s case, in point of fact, came 
to the attention of the disciplinary dean of the 
university — ^who was also chairman of the ath- 
letic committee — ^in no uncertain terms. It came, 
in truth, in the shape of a letter from the deans 
of Baliol and Shelburne. They wished that Dean 
Poindexter would look into certain facts “herein 
presented concerning the eligibility status of 
Thomas Kerry, of the Haledon football eleven.” 
Attached was a lengthy document. This came 
the day before Haledon was to play a small col- 
lege team. The following Saturday Haledon was 
to go to Shelburne for the first of the season’s 
“big games,” and the Saturday after that Baliol 
was due at Haledon. 

Tom, together with four other regular members 
of the eleven, went to Shelburne in company 
with Meriwether to see Shelburne in action in its 
213 


The Fullback 


game preliminary to the Haledon contest. A sub- 
stitute Haledon team, therefore, was put in to face 
the Jackson College outfit, which was to provide 
Haledon with more or less gentle opposition in 
practise for the great game of the succeeding week. 

Thus it was that Tom was several hundred miles 
away at Shelburne when Dean Poindexter re- 
ceived the annoying letter — annoying because the 
dean, while rigid and inexorable in all matters 
pertaining to eligibility, was a football enthusi- 
ast and, moreover, liked and respected Tom ex- 
ceedingly. He was in some measure prepared 
for the charges, inasmuch as Enoch Chase, who 
had talked to Tom after the Oxford game, had 
repaired thereafter to the dean to put him on his 
guard against ‘‘baseless rumors.” 

Thereupon Chase, who had come East upon a 
three weeks’ vacation covering the culmination 
of Haledon’s football season, set out with char- 
acteristic intensity to run down the evil reports. 
For Tom had enlisted Chase’s affection and his 
interest. Besides, he was characteristically of 
the bulldog type who will tolerate nothing that 
has any aspect of undecisiveness. He said no 
word of his intentions. But, as a matter of fact, 
he was in Shelburne when Tom and the other 
members of the Haledon eleven were there. 

214 


Ineligible 

The Haledon delegation found Shelburne suffer- 
ing from the loss of stars of former years, and 
while the team revealed the hall-mark of skilled 
coaching yet they decided that if they played their 
game Shelburne could be defeated. They left for 
Haledon immediately after the game and arrived 
at the university early Sunday morning. 

Bright and early on Monday morning Cunning- 
ham, one of the proctors, came to Tom’s room. 

‘‘The dean wants to see you at ten o’clock in 
his office.” 

“All right,” Tom replied cheerfully. He had 
no idea what Dean Poindexter wanted, but he 
believed that it could not be anything of serious 
nature. 

Promptly at the appointed hour he knocked at 
the dean’s door and was told to enter. 

As Tom entered he was surprised to see Enoch 
Chase seated at the dean’s elbow. He greeted 
Tom with serious countenance. 

“Hello, Tom,” he said quietly, “sit down. 
The dean has a matter to take up with you. I’ll 
say for my part, Tom, that I had heard rumors 
that you were a professional, and I started out to 
run them down. I found they came from Shel- 
burne, and I went up there and induced Professor 
Folwell, chairman of the Shelburne athletic com- 
215 


The Fullback 


mittee, to prefer the charges which Dean Poin- 
dexter will read to you/’ Chase paused and then 
went on. ‘‘I might say that Folwell did this re- 
luctantly.” 

Tom’s blue eyes were as hard as steel disks. 
He nodded at Chase and turned to the dean. 

‘^Will you please read Professor Folwell’s com- 
plaint, Dean Poindexter.” 

The officer cleared his throat and, without a 
glance at Tom, picked up a document from the 
table and read it. 

The charges related to Tom’s participation in 
the game at Blainesville between the Columbus 
and Blainesville nines. They recited the fact 
that Tom had pitched several innings for Blaines- 
ville under the name of Dulane, and that he had 
received money therefor. The dean laid the 
paper aside. 

“Who signed that affidavit.?” asked Tom. 

The dean replied that the signatures were those 
of Thomas Byrnes, manager of the Columbus 
nine, and Alfred Mertz, manager of the Columbus 
team. 

“Did you play in that game as set forth in this 
paper.?” asked Chase. 

“I did,” replied Tom calmly, but with glitter- 
ing eyes. 


216 


Ineligible 

‘‘You did ! r m sorry to hear you say that, Mr. 
Kerry.” The dean’s voice was indeed sorrow- 
ful. 

“But didn’t you know you were sacrificing 
your whole undergraduate athletic career asked 
Chase. 

“No, I knew I wasn’t doing that,” returned 
Tom. “I am as much of an amateur as you are, 
Mr. Chase.” 

“What do you mean The man was studying 
Tom intently. 

“I mean just that,” snapped Tom. “Both 
Mertz and Byrnes were after me to pitch on their 
nines, as you know. But I wouldn’t because I 
knew I was going to Haledon. They offered me 
all sorts of inducements — Byrnes wanted to give 
me twenty-five hundred a year as a starter. Then 
after I had repeatedly declined I didn’t hear a 
word from them until Mertz invited me to come 
up with my uniform and sit on the bench to see 
the team play Columbus. I went, of course, as 
I’d never had the experience before. In the fifth 
inning Columbus had batted all Blainesville’s 
pitchers, and Mertz asked me if I would go in. 
I saw no harm and so I went and pitched the re- 
maining innings.” 

“What did they do to you?” asked Chase, 
217 


The Fullback 


whose sporting instincts for the moment triumphed 
over the tragedy of the occasion. 

‘‘They made one hit/’ proceeded Tom. “After 
the game Mertz came to me and offered me a roll 
of bills — I forget how much, think it was fifteen 
dollars. Naturally, I refused it. That’s the last 
I ever heard of the incident until just now.” 

The dean, who had been eying Tom intently, 
spoke at length as though with an effort. 

“I am loath to ask you this, Mr. Kerry, but if 
what you say is true, why did you pitch under an 
assumed name ?” 

Tom’s reply came promptly. 

“When they called upon me to go in, the umpire 
came up and asked me my name. I didn’t wish 
to give my real name because — ^well, because An- 
nandale is a small place and a great many of my 
friends, my older friends, look upon professional 
baseball as they do upon horse-racing and the 
theatre. So I gave the first name which hap- 
pened to come into my head, my mother’s family 
name.” 

“I see.” The dean nodded. Chase’s face had a 
more hopeful expression. 

“Tom,” Enoch Chase asked at length, “what 
possible reason do you suppose would lead these 
two managers to lie about you.” 

218 


Ineligible 

Tom frowned a moment. 

'‘Why, I can’t imagine. I certainly never did 
anything to them, and they were always decent 
to me — friendly.” He suddenly arose. “But I 
tell you what I’m going to do: I’m going West 
to see them. They’ve got to tell me why they 
did this. I’ll — I’ll — ” Tom’s fingers closed 
tightly and he struggled and succeeded in checking 
the words that sought to escape from his lips. 

“No,” interposed Chase, “you’ll stay right 
here, Tom. I’ll run West and attend to this. 
There’s something rotten in this matter; I be- 
lieved it all along. By the way, I located the first 
outbreak of rumor on this situation. Did you 
ever know a Gordon Oliver, who went to the 
Pulver Academy and lived in Blainesville ?” 

“Yes, I knew him,” Tom replied. “I suppose 
he must have been at that game and saw me 
pitch.” He paused. “I believe Oliver is a sub- 
stitute on the Shelburne eleven. I hope he gets 
into our game.” 

But Chase raised his hand. 

“I don’t think Oliver was very much to blame. 
He said nothing officially. He told his roommate 
he had seen you pitch for Blainesville, and the 
roommate told some one else. That’s the way it 
spread. He had not been to Professor Folwell 
219 


The Fullback 


when I was there and I believe his statement 
that he never intended reporting the thing offi- 
cially. He seemed indignant when I suggested 
it.” 

‘‘How did you know of him, then?” inquired 
Tom. 

“When I traced the rumors to Shelburne I 
looked first to see what students in Shelburne 
came from our section, and I found Oliver. I 
went to him and he at once admitted he had seen 
the game and that he had spoken of it to his room- 
mate.” 

“Did he say he had seen me take money?” 

“No,” responded Chase, “he said he assumed 
you were, of course, being paid.” 

“A very natural assumption, I should imagine,” 
remarked Doctor Poindexter quietly. 

“Yes, sir,” Tom glanced at Chase. “But I 
didn’t take any money. You can see what a fool 
I would have been to do it, and I’m not a fool — 
not such a great fool, anjrway.” 

“So far as I can learn the affidavit from Byrnes 
and Mertz was merely a coincidence with the 
gossip concerning you. Doctor Folwell says it 
came to him unsolicited. If Doctor Folwell 
hadn’t said so I should be inclined to doubt this 
very much.” 


220 


Ineligible 

The dean, who had been thinking intently, 
raised his head as Chase ceased speaking. 

“You say you are going West, Mr. Chase?” 

Chase nodded emphatically. 

“Yes, I am.” 

“When do you start?” 

“I shall start to-night, or rather this afternoon, 
ril catch the four-o’clock train from the Tunc- 
tion.” 

“Very good. Let’s see. This is Monday, 
isn’t it ? And the Shelburne people, I assume, 
have not sent West. Have they?” 

“Not that I know of,” gestured Chase. “I 
guess they think it is up to us.” 

“So it is. So it is.” Poindexter tapped his 
pencil upon the desk. “Mr. Kerry, this is a very 
shocking situation. I don’t know any one I had 
rather not have had this befall. I respect your 
word implicitly, believe you did not receive a 
cent for your pitching. None the less, you can 
see that our friends at Shelburne have on the con- 
trary every reason for thinking so. We thus have 
nothing to do but hew straight to the line as we 
would, of course, have them do were the case re- 
versed.” 

There was a long silence and the atmosphere 
grew tense. Chase was the first to break it. 

221 


The Fullback 


‘‘You mean, I suppose ’’ 

“I mean,” interrupted the dean, “that, of 
course, Mr. Kerry will have to leave the football 
squad until — until this matter is adjusted.” 

Tom looked up, his face paling. 

“But this is the week of the Shelburne game !” 

“I know it. That is quite true. None the 
less, Mr. Kerry, you are ineligible to represent 
Haledon University in athletics — for the present 
at least.” 

He compressed his thin lips and, leaning back 
in his chair, turned to a pile of papers, a signal of 
dismissal. 


222 


CHAPTER XIII 

Tom Departs from Haledon 

N ews of Tom’s suspension from the squad 
spread quickly throughout the university. 
It was a stunning blow to the students who were 
aware of Tom’s importance as a cog in the of- 
fensive and defensive machinery of the eleven. 
Under the coaching of Meriwether and of Jerrems, 
who had charge of the backfield men, Tom had 
made extraordinary progress in the technical side 
of the game, and this, combined with his natural 
ability, made him a formidable player. He was 
relied upon not alone for punting and returning 
kicks, but for throwing the ball on forward passes. 
In this last respect his timing was accurate to a 
dot and his aim unerring. Maher, of course, 
would take his place, but Maher, good as he was, 
was by no means Tom’s equal. 

Meriwether went about with a face like a 
thunder-cloud, and Tom was not at all inclined 
to accept the situation in an equable frame of 
mind. He was, quite the contrary, rebellious, 
and his rancor included Dean Poindexter and 
223 


The Fullback 


Haledon, and the whole code of intercollegiate 
athletics. His first inclination was to practise 
with the scrub, and if he had been a Haledon man 
in all that the term implied he would have done 
this. But he lacked something of that spirit 
which places a university first and self second, and 
besides, in the depths of his disappointment, the 
last things he wanted to see was a football or a 
gridiron. Then, too, he had of necessity neglected 
certain of his economic affairs as the football 
season advanced. He decided that the best thing 
he could do would be to devote himself to these 
things to the exclusion of everything excepting his 
lessons. 

Thus it was at practise that afternoon Maher 
was in Tom’s place and Tom was not in evidence. 
The students thronged into the field, when secret 
practise was ended and the gates were opened, 
feverish with indignation. Their idea was that 
Shelburne had, with malicious intent, cooked up a 
case against Tom Kerry. No one knew the pre- 
cise facts, and Dean Poindexter, who wished to 
avoid newspaper notoriety, took care that nothing 
came out of his office. He had enjoined strict 
secrecy upon Tom and upon the students who sent 
correspondence to the daily press in various cities. 

Tom sat in his room in Mantell Hall staring 
224 


Tom Departs from Haledon 

fixedly out of the window, where the leaves of the 
great elms which had been so green a month ago 
were now turned yellow. Here, where he had in- 
tended to pass his undergraduate days, he re- 
ceived the first full shock of his plight. He had 
gradually accumulated various little homelike or- 
naments and pieces of decoration, and his room 
had all the atmosphere of a place in which one 
expects to abide for a long time. His new foot- 
ball jersey lay across the back of a chair, and upon 
his study-table were letters from preparatory and 
grammar school boys asking for his picture or his 
autograph. He had no idea until now how en- 
joyable it all had been. And at one fell blow he 
had fallen victim to a malicious lie. All his 
career in college counted for nothing, neither his 
high scholastic standing nor his straightforward 
conduct had stood stead against a malicious 
charge preferred by two baseball managers. 

He locked his fingers tightly as he viewed the 
wreck of all his hopes; for his athletic career was 
very dear to him, not alone in its aspects of sport 
but in the mental and moral, as well as the phys- 
ical, training involved. And he could see what a 
help to him in the struggle which would follow his 
graduation his intercollegiate prestige would be. 
All gone now. Chase’s face when he had departed 
225 


The Fullback 


for the West had reflected the man’s pessimistic 
view of the outcome of his trip. 

Tom was angry as well as depressed. He chafed 
under the judicial, inexorable manner in which 
Dean Poindexter had relieved him from associa- 
tion with Haledon athletics. He arose and began 
to pace the floor. It had been his intention to 
seek diversion in a general overhauling of some of 
his neglected accounts, but he found it impossible 
to concentrate upon them. At length, seizing his 
hat, he strode out of the dormitory and went di- 
rectly to Dean Poindexter’s olflces. That official 
chanced to be alone and Tom was admitted at 
once. 

‘'Dean Poindexter,” Tom began without pre- 
liminary words, “I have been thinking over my 
situation in my room, and I’ve concluded that I’ve 
been unfairly dealt by.” 

The dean raised his eyebrows, but smiled. 

“In what way, Mr. Kerry?” 

“Why, sir, as I see it I have been judged guilty 
without a trial. I have been taken off* the squad 
on the eve of a big game simply because two 
ruffians have made a charge against me. You 
had my word that I was innocent, and yet I must 
be regarded as unworthy until I prove myself 
otherwise.” 


226 


Tom Departs from Haledon 

“Isn’t that the usual procedure, Mr. Kerry.?” 
The dean cleared his throat. “You see we have 
not ourselves to consider; these charges came 
from Shelburne. Intercollegiate relations are 
delicate matters and we must stare straight into 
the eye of things. There can be no evasion.” 

“I know, sir, but I have given you my word of 
honor that I am innocent. Isn’t my word at least 
as good as that of these two men ?” 

“Better, Mr. Kerry, infinitely better — privately 
speaking. But this is not now a private matter. 
To formulate a rather unpleasing analogy, a pris- 
oner is held under arrest or at least under bail 
until he is proven guilty or innocent.” 

“But first a judge decides whether there is a 
case against him of sufficient strength to hold him 
for trial,” argued Tom. 

“True.” The dean balanced a paper-weight 
upon his finger. “And I, as it happens, have been 
obliged to assume the role of that judge. I have 
decreed that it is a case which must stand trial.” 

Tom flushed. 

“Yes, sir, I see. Since such is the case, I have 
decided that I had better leave Haledon and go 
elsewhere.” 

The dean, who was a shrewd judge of young 
men, glanced keenly at the speaker. Presently 
227 


The Fullback 

he nodded, as though having formed a conclu- 
sion. 

‘‘I understand how you feel, Mr. Kerry. What 
are your plans V* 

^‘Nothing definite,” Tom replied, ‘^except that 
I have in mind two colleges where I can complete 
my education and — ” He was about to add 
^‘play on their teams,” but he checked the words. 

Dean Poindexter was silent for a moment. 

“Mr. Kerry,” he said finally, “I know precisely 
how you feel. But, after all, don’t you think you 
are considering an act which will make you some- 
thing that you never were on the athletic field .^” 

“What is that, sir?” 

“A quitter ! A quitter, Thomas Kerry. Now, 
see here: I don’t wish to influence you against 
your will, but I really think you had better recon- 
sider your plans. You are upset and overwrought, 
and are not looking at things clearly.” 

“I should like to agree with you, sir,” replied 
Tom. 

“Very well. Time will settle that. Now, I tell 
you what I’m going to do: I’m going to give you 
a leave of absence for a week. You are well up 
in your classes according to a report I have here. 
You will undoubtedly finish in the second group. 
My advice to you is to get out of the town for the 
228 


Tom Departs from Haledon 

full week, at the end of which time I want you to 
come to me and tell me how you feel. Perhaps 
Mr. Chase will have learned something. If you 
feel then as you do now I shall not attempt further 
to dissuade you.’^ 

‘‘Yes, sir; I’ll do that.” He left the room. 

When Tom returned to his room he found a 
telegram that surprised him. It was from Wiley, 
of Coked ale, and read as follows: 

“Understand you have got into some scrape 
with the people at your university. Don’t know 
what your plans are, but remember that Coke- 
dale is doing business at same old stand, and that 
what I said to you in Annandale some time back 
still goes. In fact, your record so far might be an 
inducement to even better terms. Think it over. 
Will be in New York on Friday en route to BalioL 
Stay at Hotel Huron.” 

Tom fingered the despatch thoughtfully. He 
had a burning resentment against Haledon, prin- 
cipally because he had always been truthful and 
was irritated that his word should not stand him 
in better stead with Dean Poindexter. All sorts 
of desperate expedients had been passing through 
his mind, and now Wiley’s letter had given point 
to them. He shrugged. Yes, he would see him. 
Why not Evidently Haledon did not want him; 
229 


The Fullback 


it might be as well to go where he was wanted. 
Then, perhaps, when the dean found that Tom 
had been telling the truth, that he had been the 
victim of a lie, he would be sorry. There was a 
sort of grim satisfaction in this thought. 

Presently he began to bestir himself. He 
packed his bag with clothing and toilet articles, 
and then went down to the bank and cashed a 
check for fifty dollars. That would do for the 
present, he fancied. Then he went down to the 
station and boarded the waiting train. As it 
pulled out he cast a melancholy glance at the gray 
walls and towers of Haledon, then turned his face 
resolutely away. He was through. 

In the meantime Enoch Chase had reached 
Columbus and was on his way to Blainesville, 
where Mertz, manager of the Blainesville nine, 
was to be found. He was, in fact, sitting with his 
feet on the desk in the club’s offices when Enoch 
Chase entered. 

Chase was not alone. He had with him a friend, 
Sanford Travers, who was one of the leading young 
lawyers of Columbus. Mertz looked curiously 
at the two men as they entered his little office, 
and slowly took his feet down from the desk. 

‘‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, “what 
is it I can do for you ?” 


230 


Tom Departs from Haledon 

Chase’s reply was not characterized by good 
nature. It had a sharp incisiveness that caused 
Mertz to abandon his nonchalant poise and draw 
himself to rigidity. 

'^My name is Chase, and Fve called with my 
friend, Mr. Travers, a lawyer, to ask you why you 
signed that false affidavit concerning Tom Kerry’s 
connection with your nine.” 

‘‘What do you mean ?” Mertz glanced blankly 
from the speaker to Travers. 

“I think I have made myself clear,” Chase re- 
joined. “Kerry is a student in Haledon Univer- 
sity. He is a member of the football eleven and 
has been put ofF the team because of a paper 
signed by you and a man named Byrnes, which 
asserts that you paid Kerry money for pitching 
for your team in a game against Blainesville, I 
mean against Columbus, over a year ago.” 

Mertz had now recovered his presence of mind. 

“Yes, I remember; he pitched five innings 
against Columbus — and he pitched a rattling good 
game of ball.” 

“All right,” Chase jerked his head impatiently. 
“Now, he says he did not receive a cent for pitch- 
ing that game, and I believe him.” 

“Then, what are you bothering me for asked 
Mertz. 


231 


The Fullback 


“Because what we believe and what we know 
are two different things. Unless we can prove 
that Tom did not receive money from you he is 
out of college athletics for good. Now, I don’t 
believe you want to do the kid such an injury — 
if he’s innocent.” 

As Mertz sat silent, studying the floor. Chase 
added: 

“As my attorney, Mr. Travers, will tell you, it’s 
a dangerous thing to sign false affidavits.” 

Mertz looked up. 

“That wasn’t any affidavit.” He grinned. “It 
was merely a paper that Tom Byrnes asked me to 
sign.” 

“You like to do what Tom Byrnes asks you 
to ?” broke in Travers. 

Mertz grinned and shrugged. 

“I get reserve players from Tom Byrnes, and 
he buys players from me; he owns some stock in 
this club, too. There isn’t any special reason 
why I should offend him.” 

“You mean that because you don’t wish to 
offend him you signed an affi — , a paper stat- 
ing that you paid Tom Kerry money for pitching, 
whereas the fact is you didn’t pay him anything ?” 
Chase was fast getting angry. 

“Oh, come now, brother, not so quick,” smiled 
Mertz. “I never said I didn’t pay him money.” 

232 


Tom Departs from Haledon 

“ But Kerry says you didn’t, and between your 
word and ” 

But Travers, who could see no good reason for 
making Mertz angry, interrupted. 

‘‘Mr. Mertz, we come here,” he said, “to ap- 
peal to your sense of fair play. Here is this boy, 
Kerry, who has got more than two years to spend 
in college, and who in that time cannot enter 
athletics simply because of your charge. Now, if 
he did take money we don’t want him to play 
football or anything else at Haledon. But if he 
didn’t! Great heavens, man; can’t you see you 
might bust up a kid’s whole career, might ruin 
him for life ? That wouldn’t get you anything, 
would it 

“No.” Mertz shook his head. His attitude 
was particularly irritating to Chase, inasmuch as 
it betokened smiling indifference. 

“Well, then?” Travers waited. 

“Well, then.” Mertz shifted in his chair. “Why 
don’t you see Tom Byrnes, in Columbus; he’s 
the doctor.” 

“What I want to know right now is whether 
or not you paid Tom Kerry for pitching in that 
game,” cried Chase, suddenly abandoning him- 
self to anger. 

Mertz glanced at him calmly. 

“You read my statement, I guess.” He was 
233 


The Fullback 


about to say more when the telephone rang. 
Mertz picked up the receiver and, after waiting a 
moment, turned to Chase. ‘‘Mr. Chase,’’ he said, 
“Mr. Warburton, at Columbus, wants to speak to 
you.” 

Chase stepped to the telephone and there for 
a moment we will leave him while the scene shifts 
to Dean Poindexter’s office at Haledon, where 
the worthy pedagogue sat surrounded by news- 
paper correspondents of the university, a pile of 
morning newspapers on his desk. 

It appears that a newspaper of the metropolis 
had issued a statement adequately embellished 
by a heavy headline and a portrait of Tom Kerry 
that the player would be unable to participate in 
the Shelburne game or any other athletic contest 
because it had been learned that he was a profes- 
sional baseball player. The article, which was 
lengthy and treated with all the importance due 
a newspaper “beat,” dilated upon Tom’s ability 
as a player and concluded with speculation as to 
the effect of this ninth-hour revelation upon Hale- 
don’s prospects. 

Dean Poindexter never read that particular 
newspaper, which was yellow in its tendencies, 
and it was not until noon that it was brought to 
his attention by the university correspondents, 

234 


Tom Departs from Haledon 

who, as may be imagined, were indignant. They, 
of course, had known of Tom’s suspension, but 
had withheld the news at the personal request of 
the dean. Now they were gathered in his office 
to be questioned concerning the leak. As may 
be imagined they were in no amiable frame of 
mind since, in addition to the humiliation of be- 
ing beaten, they had received peremptory mes- 
sages from indignant sporting editors of the me- 
tropolis asking them to explain why they had 
been scooped on the biggest piece of football news 
of the season. 

The representative of the Stavy which had con- 
tained the beat, knew nothing as to the source of 
the news. He pointed out that the article con- 
tained no date-line and bore every evidence of 
matter which had not been sent out of Haledon. 

^H’m inclined to agree with you,” mused the 
dean. ‘^None the less, it originated either here or 
in Shelburne. Of course, this matter has been 
talked about and is pretty much common prop- 
erty. I’m sorry only for Kerry’s sake, as it brings 
unwholesome publicity to a matter which has not 
as yet been settled.” 

“You mean, dean,” asked one alert boy, “that 
there is a chance that Kerry may play ?” 

Dean Poindexter smiled and shook his head. 

235 


The Fullback 


don’t know; I cannot say anything now, 
but you can protect yourself from your irate 
editors to this extent: you may say that the case 
has by no means been settled and that Kerry’s 
retirement at this time is only temporary. Of 
course,” he proceeded, ‘‘I cannot say what the 
aspect will be later. I ” 

The interruption came in the shape of a loud, 
drawling voice outside the door. Mingled with 
it was that of the dean’s stenographer and secre- 
tary. The young woman opened the door leading 
into the office and stood gazing at the dean with 
perplexed countenance. 

‘‘What is it. Miss Severance.^” The dean 
smiled encouragingly. 

“There’s a person outside. Doctor Poindexter, 
who says he must see you at once. He won’t tell 
me what he wants. He says it’s about Mr. 
Kerry.” 

Poindexter glanced at the young men about him 
and then nodded. 

“Send him in,” he said crisply, expecting to 
greet a reporter from the city. 

Instead a lithe, big athletic man, with bronzed, 
lined face, and burning eyes, walked briskly into 
the inner office. 

‘‘You’re the gentleman who runs this factory 
236 


Tom Departs from Haledon 

he asked, glancing at the dean. “Well,” as Poin- 
dexter nodded, ‘‘my name is Saunders, Rube 
Saunders, of the Giants. I guess youVe heard of 
me.” 

There was a general leaning forward of the cor- 
respondents, who, of course, knew all about 
McGraw’s famous batsman . and outfielder who 
had made such a remarkable “come-back” after 
two years in the “bushes.” Even the dean had 
heard of him. He said so. 

“Yes, indeed, we have all heard of you, Mr. 
Saunders. Won’t you be seated.?” 

“Well, no.” Saunders shook his head. “I 
usually bat better on my feet.” He winked good- 
humoredly at the educator and produced a copy 
of the Morning Star from his pocket. “What I 
came down for was — ” He paused. “You’re the 
man that put the floaters on this young chap, 
Kerry, ain’t you ? ” 

The dean, highly delighted at the man’s store 
of colloquial expression, smiled and nodded. 

“Why, in a manner of speaking, yes.” 

“Yes.” Saunders shook the paper at the 
speaker. “Well, professor, I read this stuff this 
morning at the hotel. Lucky I saw it to-day, be- 
cause Kid Gleason is taking a team to Cuba and 
I’m one of ’em. We’re going to-morrow.” He 

237 


The Fullback 


glanced at the paper he held. ‘‘Professor, youVe 
all wrong on that Kerry dope; that kid didn’t 
take anything for pitching that game.” 

Poindexter started forward. 

“You say Mr. Kerry didn’t take money for 
pitching on the Blainesville nine! How do you 
know that, Mr. Saunders! I trust you realize 
that it is very important that we have exact facts 
in this matter.” 

“Certainly it is,” agreed Saunders. “That’s 
why I come down here, so that you could have the 
exact facts. Now, this Kerry kid is some pitcher, 
believe me, professor. He’s got the sweetest hop 
ball you ever saw. And smoke, too. He’s there, 
professor — there.” 

“Yes, yes, quite so,” returned the dean. “But 
the point, Mr. Saunders, is, how do you know he 
did not receive money for playing in that game. 
Were you present ?” 

“Was I present !” Saunders laughed. “Well, 
I was just present, that’s all. I was supposed to 
be there, there with the good old wallop, I mean; 
but I just naturally wasn’t. In other words, this 
cub, Kerry, fanned me. What d’ye know about 
that ! Me, who is now batting for .370 in big 
company.” Saunders winked at the correspon- 
dents. “There was two or three on the bases at 
the time — let’s see, was it two or three ?” 

238 


Tom Departs from Haledon 

‘‘That is very interesting Mr. Saunders, of 
course,’’ interrupted the dean with some im- 
patience, “but the main thing ” 

“Now, professor,” Saunders broke in, “just let 
me tell this in my own way. I don’t want these 
boys sitting here to think that this kid, Kerry, 
good as he is, could ’a’ hung the black ball onto me 
if he hadn’t been helped by an ump with eyes 
that couldn’t see no ways but around a corner. 
That’s the idea, catch it ? The ump called the 
third strike on me.” 

“I see.” The dean, who had decided that patience 
was the greatest virtue, leaned back in his chair. 

“I’d forgot all about the thing until I read this. 
But then I remembered all about it, and I remem- 
bered this fellow Kerry, a tall, nice-looking, blond- 
headed fellow.” 

“Yes,” murmured the dean. 

“Well, they brought Kerry into the game in 
the fifth, I think it was, or maybe it was the sixth, 
or the fourth — I don’t know when it was; anyway, 
he came into the game. And he pitched a pippin 
of a game. He sure did. Those hops of his came 
up to the plate and hooked in behind the boys’ 
bats as good as anything Grover Alexander ever 
shot up — that is,” corrected Saunders, “as good 
comparatively speaking. Catch it?” 

“Just a moment.” The dean pushed a button 

239 


The Fullback 


and Miss Severance promptly appeared. '‘Miss 
Severance Mr. Saunders, of the Giants, is telling 
us an interesting story.*’ He glanced at the big 
leaguer. "You don’t mind if my secretary takes 
down what you say in shorthand ?” 

"She can take it in shorthand or longhand or 
any other old sort of a hand — or a foot either,” 
laughed Saunders. "Go to it, lady.” He nodded 
at the young woman and resumed his discourse. 

"Well, after the game was over I waited on the 
bench to speak to this kid, Kerry. The umpire had 
canned me for telling him a few things after Kerry 
had whilFed me — ^with the ump’s help — and I had 
been watching the boy work, just out of interest. 
After the game, as I already said, I wanted to 
speak to him. The crowd was going out, and as I 
ran up to the boy I saw this guy Mertz and 
Tommy Byrnes join him. 

" ‘You pitched a good game, Tom,’ said 
Byrnes, ‘and we want you with the Columbus 
team,’ or something to that elFect. And Kerry 
said no, he was still going to college. Then 
Byrnes tells him any time he changes his mind to 
let him know and Kerry said he would. 

"But that ain’t all,” continued Saunders. 
"This guy Mertz hauls out a roll of bills. ‘Here, 
Tom,’ he says, ‘you done good,’ or something like 
240 


Tom Departs from Haledon 

that, 'so I want you to take this little stake. 
YouVe earned it.’ But Tom wouldn’t take it. 
He said no, he wouldn’t take that, nor that he 
wouldn’t take anything for his expenses, either. 
And he said it so there’d be no misunderstanding 
about it, either; spoke up like a man.” 

"Yes, please go on.” The dean turned to his 
secretary. "You are getting all this. Miss Sever- 
ance?” The girl smiled affirmatively. 

"Mertz and Byrnes turned away, and then I 
come up and laid my hand on his shoulder. 
‘Boy,’ I said, ‘you done right. You’re a bright, 
capable young fellow who wants to get an educa- 
tion and be something bigger than a ball-park 
favorite with the prospects of keeping a cigar- 
store or a news-stand or a billiard-room in your old 
age. There’s nothing at all to this league stuff. 
You keep out of it. I wish I had.’ ” Saunders 
paused. "Those may not have been my very 
words, but they’re close enough. The boy thanked 
me and said he was going to take my advice — and 
that’s the last I ever saw of him until I read this 
in the paper.” 

The dean was regarding the man gravely, a 
thought having entered his mind. 

"And you’ve never seen Mr. Kerry since?” 

"Not since.” Saunders turned his honest black 
241 


The Fullback 

eyes upon the speaker. ‘‘I said that already, 
didn’t I?’’ 

“Why — ^yes, of course.” The dean coughed. 
“I merely wished to emphasize the point.” 

“Well,” Saunders turned, “if you want me to 
sign that thing that the lady there has been tak- 
ing down, ril wait around and do it. I wouldn’t 
’a’ bothered about this thing at all, except that I 
took a liking to Kerry and when I saw a chance 
to square him, why, I simply went to it.” 

“It was a very kind action on your part, and 
I’m sure will be appreciated by Mr. Kerry. I’m 
sure he would be glad to have you call upon him. 
But the fact is he is not in college at present. He 
has gone away on a week’s leave.” 

The correspondents started. 

“Then he won’t play in the Shelburne game 
anjrway.?” they asked. 

The dean shook his head. 

“I cannot say. Of course, we must have cor- 
roboratory evidence as regards Mr. Saunders’s 
statement. In the meantime I do not know where 
Mr. Kerry is.” He glanced at the ball-player. “If 
you will wait a few moments I will have you sign 
your statement, and then you may leave when- 
ever you wish, with the certainty that you have 
our deepest thanks.” 


242 


Tom Departs from Haledon 

It was a telegram from Dean Poindexter, re- 
citing in substance the details attending Saun- 
ders’s visit, which Warburton transmitted over 
the telephone to Chase. It had come to the 
Columbus office addressed to Enoch, who had 
left instructions with his friend to open all im- 
portant mail or telegraph matter and communicate 
with him at the offices of the Blainesville club. 

Chase dropped the receiver and turned to the 
manager with a grin. 

'‘I’ve just had a telegram from the dean of 
Haledon, Mertz. Rube Saunders was with him 
this morning. Rube happened to be just behind 
you when you had your little conversation with 
Kerry. He states also that he spoke to you in 
the presence of several players, whose names he 
has given to the dean, of your effort to pay Kerry 
for pitching. He swears you admitted making 
the offer and saying he was a fool not to take the 
money.” (This was information which Saunders 
had vouchsafed to Poindexter in an additional 
statement.) 

Mertz stared at the speaker and there was 
silence until Travers spoke. 

"Mertz,” he began, "whether you signed a 
paper or merely an affidavit you are legally, prob- 
ably criminally, responsible for what you have 

243 


The Fullback 


done. My advice to you is to clear this indecent 
matter up now and keep out of trouble.” 

‘‘Tm not looking for trouble,” declared Mertz. 
‘‘IVe got troubles enough now. Now, here’s the 
dope on this thing: I don’t want to get Kerry into 
trouble. He’s a nice boy. But I don’t want to 
get in bad with Byrnes, either. I’d rather take 
my chances with anything you can do than get 
in bad with Byrnes.” 

^‘Well?” Travers was gazing at him fixedly. 

‘‘Well,” grinned Mertz, “if we could fix up 
this thing without my getting in bad with Byrnes 
I’m ready to help.” 

“You mean you don’t want us to let Byrnes 
know you said anything?” asked Chase. 

“That’s it. If my statement will clear the kid 
without Byrnes getting wise, all right.” 

“That can be arranged,” asserted Travers. 
“All we want is your oath in the matter.” 

“All right. Now, I’ll tell you. You see, Tom 
Byrnes is a pal of Bud Wiley — the Coked ale guy, 
you know. Wiley wanted Tom put out of Hale- 
don, thinking he would shunt himself to Cokedale. 
So Wiley fixed it up with Byrnes to get him in 
bad.” Mertz paused. “I didn’t like it, but 
Byrnes is the man behind the gun with me and I 
had to hold up my hands.” 

244 


Tom Departs from Haledon 

“I see. Now, then, Mr. Mertz, I took the pre- 
caution to have a stenographer outside your door, 
which you will notice I left ajar. Your statement 
has been taken. Til ask you to sign it after it is 
typed. And I promise you it shall reach no one 
save authorities in Haledon and Shelburne.” 

An hour later Dean Poindexter received the 
following telegram: 

’‘‘All clear for Kerry. He is perfectly eligible. 
Pve cleaned up the whole matter. Am hurrying 
East with papers. Tell Tom to go ahead and 
play. 

“Enoch Chase.” 

Dean Poindexter read it with a smile. Then he 
frowned. 

“Now I wonder where in Tophet Kerry is?” 
he murmured. 


245 


CHAPTER XIV 


The Day of the Game 

T imothy KERRY, seated in front of his 
store in Annandale enjoying, as was his 
wont, the noon-hour pipe, had just restored a 
packet of clippings — ^which Tom had sent him a 
fortnight ago — to his pocket when Horatio Mid- 
dleton paused on his way to the bank. 

‘‘Good afternoon, Mr. Kerry. How is Tom ? 
Have you heard from him lately .? I declare, if 
Hal doesn’t write more frequently Fm going to 
cut his allowance.” 

Kerry looked up, smiling. 

“I suppose they are both busy with their foot- 
ball. No, I haven’t heard from the boy in a 
week. But I always go on the basis that no news 
is good news.” 

“Yes, indeed; yes, indeed,” smiled Middle- 
ton. “I hope he hasn’t fallen in his studies.” 
He shook his finger humorously. “You know we 
send our boys to college to learn, after all.” 

“Yes, yes,” was the eager response, “but there’s 
no trouble there at all, Mr. Middleton. He’s do- 
ing fine.” 


246 


The Day of the Game 

Middleton nodded and passed on, giving way to 
Koehnlein, the hotel-keeper. This worthy man 
was not a good dissembler. There was a chirrup 
in his voice as he greeted his friend. 

“Veil, Tim, und how iss der poy.?’’ 

“Never better, Herman — thanks.” 

“Ven is der matches against dem Shelburnes ?” 

“On Saturday, Herman.” 

“So.” The man nodded. “Und to-day is 
Toosday.” He walked away, chuckling. 

Kerry noted thereafter that almost every one 
who stopped and spoke came with mysterious 
smiles and departed with chuckles. Kerry had 
great love of a joke, but try as he would he failed 
to discern the point of this one. His relations 
with all the village was cheerful always, but 
somehow there seemed to be an unwonted atmos- 
phere of joviality. Perhaps trade was generally 
better. It had been with him. It was in this way 
only that he could account for the smiles and the 
genial words. 

It was not, in fact, until after he had eaten his 
lonely dinner and settled down under the lamp, 
which Amanda had lighted, that the jest was re- 
vealed to him. Amanda and he had been talking 
of Tom’s boyhood days, laughing at the time, but 
now that the buoyant colored woman had re- 
247 


The Fullback 


turned to the kitchen, thoughts of his son had 
become tinged with melancholy. It was very 
lonely in the cottage without him. 

Then it was that the door-bell rang and, before 
he could fully grasp the trend of events, the little 
sitting-room was filled with fellow citizens. At 
their head was Horatio Middleton and the Rev- 
erend Mr. Sparks, pastor of the First Church, 
himself a stalwart football player of a few years 
before. 

‘‘Well, gentlemen.?” Kerry arose, a nervous 
smile playing about his lips. 

“Kerry,” laughed Mr. Middleton, “we haven’t 
all been together this way since the last town 
meeting.” 

“No. Is Mr. Sparks starting that system of 
neighborhood visits he was preaching about the 
other Sunday?” Kerry spoke humorously. 

Mr. Arkwright, of the bank, glanced at Mid- 
dleton. 

“I think, Horatio, we had better have Brother 
Sparks explain to Mr. Kerry just why we are 
here.” 

There was a general chorus of assent and so 
the clergyman cleared his throat and stepped for- 
ward. 

“Mr. Kerry, we have all of us watched with 
248 


The Day of the Game 

pride the success of your Tom — our Tom — at his 
famous Eastern seat of learning. We have re- 
joiced on his account and on yours, Mr. Kerry. 
I refer to his athletic ability not only, but to his 
scholastic standing and his clean Christian life as 
well. Annandale is proud of him, Mr. Kerry, 
and Annandale is proud of you, his father. We 
are so proud and we feel so kindly toward you 
both that we have felt that the climacteric strug- 
gle against the hosts of old Shelburne — ^in which 
Tom will bear a valiant part — should not be con- 
summated without your presence. I, therefore, 
Mr. Kerry, have the honor, as chairman of the 
Kerry Football Committee, to hand you this 
purse of a hundred dollars to the end that you may 
depart for Haledon next Friday afternoon, and if 
you see fit to remain the week pending the final 
struggle with Baliol.’’ He produced a purse dec- 
orated with ribbons — Haledon’s colors — and hold- 
ing it out to Kerry, was about to continue his 
speech when a half sob caused him to desist. 
The incident was too much for the warm-hearted 
little man, and he stood as though dazed with 
moist eyes. 

‘‘See Tom play ?” He looked vacuously at the 
Reverend Mr. Sparks. 

‘‘Yes, to be sure,” smiled the clergyman. 

249 


The Fullback 

“That is why we are here. Isn’t it so, gentle- 
men 

Emphatic nods went the round of the group, 
and Kerry started forward, his hand upraised. 

But Horatio Middleton anticipated him. 

“Not a word, Kerry; not a word. You are 
going to see Tom play and there’s an end on it, 
as Doctor Johnson used to say. It’s to be a sur- 
prise to Tom, and you must not let him know 
until the day of the game. I have arranged with 
the high-school boys to look after your store and 
Mr. Arkwright will drop in frequently. So there’s 
no need to worry on that score. And — and — ^well, 
gentlemen, I think that is all.” He shrugged 
significantly toward the door and they all filed 
out, leaving Kerry seated in his chair, the little 
smile lingering upon a countenance which was 
otherwise devoid of expression. 

A group of former gridiron stars, who had come 
down to see the Haledon team go through its paces 
preliminary to the last home game of the season — 
the first of the eleven’s two great games — ceased 
talking and fastened their eyes upon the gridiron 
as a shock-headed fullback received a pass, stood 
poised for a moment, and then threw the ball 
down the field to an end. It was not a good 
250 


The Day of the Game 

throw. The runner barely touched it with the 
tip of his fingers. 

‘‘Rats! That’s the third rotten pass Maher 
has made,” growled one of the group of gradu- 
ates to the assistant field coach, Jerrems. “What’s 
the trouble anyway?” 

“Kerry,” was the sententious reply. “Look at 
Meriwether; he’s wondering whether he can pick 
a better man than Maher.” 

As the head coach glanced toward the side- 
lines there was a rustle along the line of substi- 
tutes, who, muffled in their gray blankets, had 
sat viewing the various plays against the scrub 
with faces as imperturbable as those of Indians. 
Now one of them turned and glanced with peculiar 
meaning at a man at his side, a player with flashing 
black eyes and high cheek-boned face. 

But Meriwether did nothing. The hour was 
late anyway. He blew Jiis whistle and called off 
the practise for the day. The players turned and 
ran for the field-house. There was a frosty tang 
in the air, the odor of burnt leaves. The towers 
of the distant college buildings stood like etchings 
against a steel-blue sky. The undergraduate body 
was parading out of the field headed by a band, 
and the brazen notes were, or should have been, 
very inspiring. But there was no inspiration about 

251 


The Fullback 


the field. The players ran silently to their quar- 
ters, the students cheered in a perfunctory man- 
ner. The substitutes ran out on the turf and 
began kicking and passing the ball. 

Two of the graduates approached Meriwether. 

^‘Haven’t heard a word, Merry?’’ 

‘‘No, hang it !” The coach faced his questioner 
rebelliously. “And I had a perfect backfield com- 
bination, too.” 

“Isn’t that always the way !” was the mournful 
response. 

“It is. Jack.” The coach shook his head. 

“I should think,” went on the other, “that he 
could be located. It wouldn’t take a good sleuth 
long to get him.” 

“I don’t know,” Meriwether scowled. “The 
papers had that he was eligible. Why it came out 
the day after the Star printed that story.” 

“It’s funny he didn’t come back then, unless — ” 
The graduate paused. 

“Unless what?” Meriwether looked at the 
man questioningly. 

“Why,” resumed the other, “unless — ^well. 
Merry, no one admires that boy’s game more 
than I do. But I always agreed with Jerrems 
that Tom was a good deal more for himself than 
for the varsity.” 


252 


The Day of the Game 

‘^You mean he’s a pot-hunter?” 

“Well, not that precisely,” answered the gradu- 
ate. “I mean that some things don’t appear to 
have got through his system yet.” 

“You mean he lacks spirit.” The coach 
shrugged his shoulders and gestured his indigna- 
tion. “You’re wrong, Jack.” 

“Well, if he didn’t lack something,” proceeded 
the coach’s companion, “we wouldn’t be missing 
him now. My idea is that he got sore at every- 
body as soon as he got that punch and simply 
beat it — probably he is going to switch to some 
other place. Anyway, he would certainly know 
by this time that he was eligible to play.” 

Meriwether regarded his friend thoughtfully. 

“You may be right, J ack, but I don’t believe it. I 
think he just caved and buried himself somewhere 
as soon as the dean gave him that week’s leave.” 

“Well, the leave is up Monday and we’ll see 
then.” The alumnus smiled ruefully. 

“That will be Monday,” growled Meriwether. 
“A fine time to help us out with that Shelburne 
game — ^which comes day after to-morrow. I cer- 
tainly hope he comes to life before then.” 

“You’ll use him then, even though he’s missed 
this last week of practise ?” 

Meriwether grinned broadly. 

253 


The Fullback 


“Would I ! Well, Jack, you just give me the 
chance and you’ll see.” 

But the chance did not come, and at length the 
morning of the game arrived. Brave banners 
floated and flowed over the towers of the univer- 
sity. Into the railroad station steamed great 
engines hauling trains of interminable length, out 
of which, when the wheels ceased to roll, debouched 
regiments of rival partisans, intent only upon the 
great struggle of the afternoon. The Shelburne 
team had arrived with its company of coaches, 
rubbers, substitutes, and the like and was making 
headquarters in its private car. The Haledon 
eleven had just arrived from a country estate, 
where they had spent the twenty-four hours pre- 
ceding the contest in order to escape the noise 
and confusion of the night before the game, and 
were now lunching in the club-house. 

On the porch outside a group of coaches and 
former stars loitered, filled with importance of 
knowledge concerning the line-up for the game, 
the precise condition of the men, and other in- 
teresting details which the bulk of the university 
was dying to know. Their demeanor was subdued, 
however, and they suggested men who, despite 
their importance, were extremely mistrustful of 
the outcome of the contest. 

254 


The Day of the Game 

Toward them came, an hour before the time of 
the struggle, a quiet little man whose blue eyes 
glittered with the light of expectancy. But his 
manner was diffident and he stood awkwardly in 
front of the group for several minutes before he 
caught the eye of any one of them. 

^‘Tom Kerry he said, responding to a ques- 
tioning look from one of the coaching staff. ‘‘Is 
he anywhere around ? ’’ 

“Kerry?” The coach’s voice was rather gruff. 
“What do you want of him ?” 

The man smiled self-consciously. 

“Nothing — nothing much, that is — ” There 
was a pause. “I — I thought Td like to shake 
hands with him and wish him a bit of luck. You 
see — ^Tom, that is Tom Kerry, he’s my boy, my 
son.” 

“My heaven!” The assistant coach, turned in 
dismay to the team manager, who stepped for- 
ward, facing Timothy Kerry. 

“Mr. Kerry, how do you do? My name is 
Walton; I’m the team manager. I’m afraid,” 
he went on, “that not even parents could get at 
the players just now. They’re all on edge, you 
know, and — and ” 

“That’s all right, perfectly all right,” exclaimed 
Kerry, heartily wringing Howland’s hand. “I 

25s 


The Fullback 


understand. Til call here after the game. Only — ” 
he stopped a moment, ‘^only tell him his dad’s 
on the field, if you think it’ll do him no harm, 
which I can say it won’t, knowing Tom — tell him 
his father’s on the field and that if he doesn’t do 
his best, why then he’s not his father’s only son. 
. . . Yes, thank you, I have a ticket. That was 
all arranged for by the people at home. Good-by 
and good luck.” He put his hand into a pocket 
and withdrew it with a small charm which had 
made many things go right for him in the days of 
his youth. 

“Tell him, tell Tom to kiss this before he goes 
on the field. It’s foolish, I know, but, some way, 
it always seems to help.” Then with a wave of 
his hand he walked toward one of the entrance 
gates through which crowds were beginning to 
pour. 

The group on the club-house steps looked at one 
another in dismay. 

“Phew!” Howland passed his hand across his 
forehead. “What shall we do?” 

“Do!” Meriwether scowled at him. “Why, 
do nothing. And every man keep his mouth 
tightly closed. Understand, all of you ?” 

That was all that was said. 

Slowly at first the stands filled and then, as 
256 


The Day of the Game 

the onrushing torrent increased, the cold bare 
concrete gave place to an animated spectacle 
vibrant with color and wonderful in enthusiasm. 
On one side arose the smouldering colors of Shel- 
burne, on the other the brilliant hue of Haledon. 
And in the mountainous tiers at either end of the 
gridiron the partisan color scheme mingled har- 
moniously, as meetly they should, while every- 
where coats and hats of red, blue, green, brown, 
pink, gray, orange, and black clashed in chro- 
matic riot. 

The Shelburne team dashed onto the field and 
the well-ordered roars of greeting were crashing 
relentlessly across the field into the opposite 
stands. 

There came a sudden swirling movement at a 
far corner of the enclosure and then as uproar 
grew to frenzy a tawny band twinkled into view. 
Swiftly a little group of men disengaged them- 
selves from their comrades and ran to the centre 
of the field, crouching into line. ... A man in 
the middle section of seats leaned forward with 
mouth tense and drawn, eyes wide, unwinking. 
Two, three minutes he watched the Haledon team 
as the players swept down the field in response to 
the snappy cries of the quarterback. Then while 
the cheers rang and the bands played and the 

257 


The Fullback 


rival captains met in the field and shook hands, 
while banners waved and stands rocked with the 
thrill and excitement of it all, Timothy Kerry 
sank back into his seat, his face expressionless 
and white. 


CHAPTER XV 


Haledon versus Shelburne 

M idway between a large Eastern city and 
Haledon there is a small but brisk city 
which forms a stopping-place for motorists en 
route to the university. Here in a public square 
on one of the benches on the morning of the 
Shelburne game sat Tom Kerry, his head upon his 
hands. He had gone directly from Haledon to 
New York the preceding Monday and had, as 
Meriwether had surmised, buried himself in a 
small west-side hotel. He had not realized the 
scope of the reaction which had beset him when 
he arrived in the great city, fully alive to the con- 
sciousness that he had left Haledon behind him 
for good and that he must proceed to the mapping 
out of a new scheme of life. He had begun to fit 
in so well at Haledon; he could see now that the 
place had been a veritable second home to him. 

He had met Wiley at an up-town hotel and had 
had a long talk with him. He had promised noth- 
ing definitely, had declined to accompany the Coke- 
dale eleven to Baliol, but had made an arrange- 

259 


The Fullback 


ment to meet the coach in New York on Sunday. 
But that evening a strange restlessness had seized 
him, and before he was well aware of what he was 
doing he was on the train bound for Bolton. At 
least this was within the sphere of Haledon’s in- 
fluence. He would catch here some of the Hale- 
don atmosphere. He was tempted to proceed to 
the university, but he could not. He had even 
avoided reading newspapers and had in every 
way tried to shut the impending contest out of 
his mind. Incidentally it might be said that Wiley 
could have enlightened Tom as to the turn af- 
fairs had taken in the boy’s favor, but Wiley, who 
of course had fancied that Tom knew everything, 
had not touched upon the subject. His conclu- 
sion was that Kerry — despite the decision that he 
was eligible — had decided to take advantage of 
Cokedale’s, or rather Wiley’s, lucrative offer. 

“They all fall sooner or later,” Wiley had said, 
chuckling, to the Cokedale captain, who himself 
had fallen and was pleased to hear of others in 
similar state. 

But Tom had not fallen. Far from it. He was 
homesick for Haledon. As the chimes in a dis- 
tant tower pealed the hour of ten he started sud- 
denly in his seat. He had been looking down at 
the leaf-covered turf, thinking of the campus, his 
260 


Haledon versus Shelburne 


campus, and now the chiming bells brought to his 
mind the picture of an old ivy-clad building with 
clouds hurrying over the time-worn spire and the 
bell ringing to recitation. 

He had loved to stand near that old gray pile, 
half-buried in thought, and watch the clouds as 
they scurried over the steeple. In a vague way 
they typified to him the passage of time, the 
eternal change in things, the rush of the seasons — • 
ceaseless, inexorable. Always a couplet of a col- 
lege anthem came to him at this time: 

“The seasons come, the seasons go 
The earth is green or white with snow.” 

Sometimes he repeated them to himself when 
standing on the campus and watching the clouds 
rush over the old spire with its clock and chiming 
bells. Now, thinking of this, an acute nostalgic 
wave passed over him. He pictured the time, 
hours hence, when that wonderful army with 
banners would forge to the field; he lived with 
his team those never-forgotten hours which inter- 
vene before the whistle blows and the struggle 
begins. 

Haledon ! Never until now had he known what 
Haledon meant. Now he knew. Ah, he did. 
He wanted to hear Hal Middleton’s cheerful yawp 
261 


The Fullback 


once more — Hal was probably disgusted with him. 
(As a matter of fact, Hal was; he had even for- 
borne to write to his father concerning the matter, 
fearing for Tom’s father.) Well, he deserved his 
friend’s contempt. 

But Tom craved the sight of him just the same. 
And he wanted to have Beef Hill’s shoulder where 
he could throw his arm across it. And he wanted 
to smile at Meriwether’s grim inscrutability. 
Yes, Tom was homesick. He had the feeling of a 
pariah — no friends, nowhere to go, a wanderer 
in the outlands. He wouldn’t be on the campus 
to-night. His breath caught when he realized 
that he would not be able to sit down in the eve- 
ning, with the thrill of the struggle still upon him, 
and write to his father of the game. When this 
thought came a lump arose in Tom’s throat. 
Even if he couldn’t play he could at least be there 
and help out with his yells of encouragement or 
his words of advice. There’d be no more walking 
of the campus at night, as he did when he was a 
freshman, gazing into dormitory windows, where 
his friends were settled under their evening lamps. 

And to-morrow he would not sit with the 
^‘studes” in front of a little store on the main 
street of the college town watching the quiet 
progress of village affairs and talking football. 

262 


Haledon versus Shelburne 


Professor Witherspoon, too; he could imagine 
that revered man’s expression as he thought of 
Tom, his gray wolf’s beard crinkling down over 
the pipe-stem. 

He arose, startled by the thud of a boot against 
inflated pigskin. Some children were playing with 
the ball. The game ! In two hours it would be- 
gin. He had eaten no breakfast and he had a 
feeling of hunger. He walked toward the inn; 
perhaps food would do him good. 

He sat down at a table and ordered from the 
menu. When the dishes were placed before him 
he ate mechanically. But at length he thrust 
the dishes away from him, half-emptied. He 
ordered a pot of tea of the waiter and sat sipping 
it with a vacant expression in his eyes. When he 
looked up at the clock the hands registered one. 
In an hour the game! The thought seemed to 
palsy him. 

‘‘Tom Kerry! What are you doing here.?” 

As the voice sounded in his ears, as he felt a 
hand upon his shoulder, he jumped up as though 
a shot had been fired behind him; turning, he 
faced Louise Middleton. She was in motoring 
costume, a blue veil was thrown back upon her 
shoulders. Her face was flushed, her eyes spar- 
kling. 


263 


The Fullback 


“Why, Tom !” 

He tried to speak and couldn’t. He cleared his 
throat. 

Hello, Louise,” he said at length in a thick, 
choked voice. 

‘‘But, Tom Kerry! Why aren’t you with the 
team .? I supposed, of course, you’d be with them, 
very much engaged at this moment. Well, how 
glad I am to see you 1 We motored down, and 
stalled our beastly engine just outside of Bolton. 
We were ferried into town by another party and 
now we’re trying to engage another car. But, tell 
me, what in the world are you doing here ?” 

Tom, who had been staring at her vacantly, 
spoke listlessly. 

“Haven’t you heard anything, Louise?” 

“Heard, Tom? Why, no. You see, Clare 
Burleigh, my roommate, was taken down with 
the measles — the silly creature — and so they 
cleared all the girls who had been in touch with 
her out of college for the time being. I’ve been 
visiting in Westchester with a classmate for a 
week and have had no end of fun, seeing the 
measles didn’t take.” 

“But,” persisted Tom, “you heard nothing 
about me — I mean, the newspapers. Didn’t — 
haven’t you read them ?” 

264 


Haledon versus Shelburne 


She was gazing at him with troubled eyes. 

‘‘Why, yes, or rather, no; I haven’t glanced at a 
newspaper, but I heard Helen Dale’s brother — 
I’ve been staying with her — say you had had some 
unpleasantness, but that you were all right and 
would play.” She paused. “Wait a moment, 
here comes Fred Dale now. Oh, Fred,” she beck- 
oned to a stout young man, who was just ap- 
proaching a near-by table with the gleeful an- 
nouncement that he had secured a car. 

“And you’ll all have to hurry. We’ll be late 
for the start of the game now — but we’ll see enough. 
. . . Oh, all right, Louise, I’m coming.” 

“Fred!” Louise beckoned to him imperiously. 
“This is Mr. Kerry, Tom Kerry.” 

Dale glanced at Tom with wide-eyed interest. 

“Oh, I say — ” He even neglected to shake 
hands. “I say, now — Kerry! Well, what’s this! 
Aren’t you in the game to-day.?” 

“That’s just it, Fred,” cried the girl. “You 
were telling me that — ^why, what was it you were 
saying about Tom .? The other day, I mean 

“Yes, what was it, Mr. Dale?” Tom’s face 
had paled and he was leaning toward the young 
man, eying him eagerly. 

“Why — ^why — ” Dale paused. He was not a 
quick thinker. 


265 


The Fullback 


‘‘For goodness sake, Fred!’' Louise was re- 
garding him disdainfully. 

‘‘Oh — ^why, Mr. Kerry, I told Louise about that 
mess you had got into at Haledon; it was in one 
of the papers. And the next day all the news- 
papers came out, the evening papers, and said 
that everything had been fixed — that you had 
been victimized, or something, I forget what. 
Anyway, they said everything was all cleared up. 
That’s all — Ouch!” Tom’s fingers had seized 
Dale’s chubby arm with an iron grip. 

“Are you sure of that. Dale?” 

“Of course I’m sure of it. They were talking 
about it last night in the Baliol Club — I’m a 
Baliol man, you know.” 

Tom stepped back dazed. 

It was Louise who came to the rescue. 

“Fred, what sort of a car have you ?” 

“Oh, it’s a good one; got a lot of power, the 
garage man says.” 

“Fred.” Louise took him by the arm and 
pushed him to the door. “You go out and get 
ready. I’ll collect the party.” 

Taking Tom by the arm, she half pulled him to 
a table at which sat an elderly woman, a girl, and 
a young man. 

“Mr. Kerry, these are my friends, Mrs. Dale, 
266 


Haledon versus Shelburne 

Miss Dale, and Mr. Armstrong. Oh, Mrs. Dale, 
the most exciting thing has happened,’’ she ran 
on. “Mr. Kerry is a member of the Haledon 
team and is here through a misunderstanding; 
he’s a friend of mine — oh, we can’t stop to ex- 
plain now I But will you please make them all 
hurry, Mrs. Dale; we must have Tom in Haledon 
at the first possible moment.” 

Mrs. Dale, who was a woman of the efficient 
type with snapping dark eyes, nodded compre- 
hendingly. 

“Very well, Louise. Come, people.” She arose 
from the table, and, while Armstrong paid the 
waiter for the few sandwiches which they had been 
eating while waiting for Fred Dale to find a car, 
the rest of the party made their way out. 

Tom, who had found affairs pressing entirely 
too swiftly for his dazed senses, spoke at last. 

“There’s no need for all this, Louise. They 
won’t let me play now, an3rway. I’m what Dean 
Poindexter said I was — a quitter. I’ve had my 
lesson, and I needed it.” 

“Shush!” Louise tapped him impatiently on 
the shoulder. “You will play, Tom Kerry.” 

They were all in the big touring-car in a jiffy, 
and Fred Dale swung the vehicle out on the high- 
way with a deft hand. 

267 


The Fullback 


"‘We’ll get there; never fear,” he said. 

But fate seemed disposed to apply a delaying 
hand. They had gone about ten miles of the 
necessary thirty when, with a tremendous report, 
the rear tire blew out. 

Tom, whose face was set grimly, his eyes burn- 
ing, never turned his head, and Louise, glancing 
at him, forbore to speak. But Dale said enough 
for every one. They all had to get out while the 
three men ran to the rear of the car. 

“Hang it!” Dale’s voice arose in a roar of 
anger. “There’s no extra tire on back.” 

“Fred, I should think you would have looked 
after that.” Mrs. Dale’s voice was composed. 

“Mother — !” Dale glared at her, but remem- 
bered she was his mother, as well as a woman. 
“I had to take anything I could get in a hurry.” 

Armstrong glanced at the car. 

“She’s too heavy to run with a flat tire.” 

“Oh, yes.” Dale looked up the road. “We’ll 
have to borrow or buy one.” 

They waited perhaps half an hour, while Tom, 
who had resolutely shut off* all flow of thought, 
sat as though turned to stone. 

At length a man, driving a low, gray one-seat 
car with a rumble, came up. Four cars had been 
stopped without success. 

268 


Haledon versus Shelburne 

Dale, standing in the middle of the road, hailed 
this one. 

“Have you got a spare tire he asked, as the 
driver stopped his car. 

“No, and it wouldn’t fit your boat if I had,” 
grinned the man. He was about to start when 
Louise came up. 

“We have a Haledon football player here ” 

“Nice place for him,” interrupted the motor- 
ist. 

“We wish to improve it,” continued Louise. 
“Cannot you take Mr. Kerry to Haledon.? It 
is so awfully important.” She was smiling ap- 
pealingly. 

The man paused a moment. 

“Why, I wasn’t going that far, but I’ll do it, 
just the same, and I’ll take one other passenger. 
Only I’ve got a sprained wrist and I can’t drive at 
all fast.” 

“I’ll drive,” Louise cried. “I’m a fine — at 
least I have driven a lot.” 

She paused, glancing at Mrs. Dale. The wo- 
man understood and waved her hand. 

“You go on, Louise. You know you are more 
deeply interested than we are, we being Baliol 
people. Please go ahead by all means.” 

“All right, thank you, Mrs. Dale. And I’ll 
269 


The Fullback 


meet you at the game — ^when you get there; our 
tickets are side by side. Fred, give me mine. 
If not at the game, then we’ll meet at the hotel — 
in the lobby — after it. Thank you, Fred.” She 
took the ticket and the kindly automobilist de- 
scended to the ground. 

‘‘What are you going to do?” asked Louise. 

“Fll sit in the rumble,” was the reply. “You 
and your friend would probably like to ride to- 
gether.” 

“You are awfully good !” Louise climbed into 
the seat and beckoned to Tom. The next instant 
that low, gray car was under feverish headway. 

Louise was a splendid driver, and she tooled the 
motor over the smooth road with the poise and 
coolness of a veteran. Tom, who sat beside her, 
felt humble in the presence of her ability, he him- 
self never having had experience in the driving of 
automobiles. 

Occasionally the car jolted them together and 
he thrilled under the pressure of her shoulder. 
Somehow he could not grasp the fact that she was 
hurrying him to a great arena, where if he had 
luck he would appear as a player. He knew that 
it was already certain he could not enter the game 
in the first half — but the second 1 Would Meri- 
wether let him play ? 


270 



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I 


Haledon versus Shelburne 


Then came the desire to know of the game. 
It had already started. What was happening ? 
There had formerly been the feeling that a foot- 
ball game could mean nothing to him and little to 
any one else without him as a player. Now he 
knew differently. What was in progress on that 
gridiron ? How he wished he could know ! He 
had no thought now of playing. He merely wanted 
to hear that Haledon was running ahead in the 
contest. 

He glanced at Louise. Her face was fixed on 
the road ahead. The car was going like a wild 
thing, and the wind rush beat into their faces 
like a palpable element. Her hair was blowing 
loose. Tom’s hat had gone in the cloud of dust 
which rose from under the rear of the car. 

‘^Some driv — ” The voice of the man behind 
was borne away on the wind. 

A heavy automobile had the centre of the road 
and would not budge in response to Louise’s re- 
peated honking. Suddenly she swerved sidewise, 
running the car up on a grass sidewalk, and dart- 
ing ahead of the larger vehicle, while Tom stared 
venomously behind. 

Presently the spires of Haledon appeared in the 
distance. 

'‘Three o’clock,” muttered Tom, gazing at the 
271 


The Fullback 


chronometer on the dashboard. “That first half 
will be over in a minute.” 

Louise nodded. 

“There’ll be the second half. Tom, Fve seen 
you playing for Haledon since I was a little girl. 
You are going to play to-day.” 

There was a note of conviction, of finality in 
her voice that filled Tom with a great calm. She 
seemed to speak as one who knew, not as one 
uttering vain hopes. He looked at her with awe 
as she sat with her hands on the wheel, her fair 
cheeks streaked with dust, her goggles destroying 
any semblances of the girl he had known, and yet 
supplanting that girl of old with a finer, stronger, 
and truer conception. 

The car was now entering a street in which cars 
were parked. A policeman stepped out and held 
up his hand. 

Louise drew up with a sharp cry. 

“Mr. Policeman,” she cried, “this is Tom 
Kerry here. We have to have him with the team. 
Please let us go on.” 

“Kerry. Tom Kerry!” The policeman, who 
knew his football — he with a number of others had 
been imported for the day from a neighboring 
city — ^waved his hand. “Go on, Kerry, and the 
traffic rules be blazed. Good luck to yese.” 

272 


Haledon versus Shelburne 

What’s the score?” called Tom. 

“Ten to nothing, first half, Shelburne,” came 
the diminishing reply. 

“Ten to nothing!” Tom struck his knee a 
resounding slap. 

“You’ll fix that, Tom Kerry — second half. 
Remember, I shall be watching you.” 

There was something of the dramatic intensity 
of the moment in the girl’s voice. 

She brought the car to a halt in front of the 
field dressing-rooms, which were outside the teem- 
ing arena. Tom, with a quick gesture to Louise, 
leaped from the seat. 

In another second he had burst through the 
door of the little building and stood in the presence 
of the Haledon eleven. 


273 


CHAPTER XVI 


The Second Half 


HE apartment was heavy with the odor of 



X alcohol and perspiration. One man lay 
stretched on the rubbing-table while a stalwart 
negro massaged his knee. Others sat on stools 
looking vacantly at the floor. Ogden, the cap- 
tain, a streak of blood down his cheek, stood in 
the middle of the floor talking in whispers to 
Meriwether. Jerrems was at one side talking to 
three of the players — backfield men. The at- 
mosphere was not depressed, it was grim. 

It was into this scene that Tom entered. He 
stood silently on the sill while an exclamation 
went up from the members of the eleven. Ogden 
made as though to step forward, but Meriwether 
caught him by the arm. He himself advanced to 
Tom, not a sign of expression upon his iron fea- 
tures. He took Tom by the arm and led him to a 
window — the room was in semigloom. 

Without a word, he looked Tom in the eye, 
studying his face, and then he backed away. 

‘‘You’ve got about four minutes to get into a 
suit, Tom,” he said calmly. 


274 


The Second Half 


Tom’s figure jerked to rigidity. 

“Coach, I didn’t know I could play. I thought 
I was still out. I heard in Bolton that I was 
eligible, and ” 

“You shut up.” Meriwether’s usually soft 
voice was rough. “You and I will talk later; 
you’ve got to play football now.” He smiled. 
“Do you understand, boy — -football,'*^ 

But Tom was running to his locker and was 
pulling open the door. 

Ogden glanced at the coach with troubled eyes. 

“Merry,” he said, “I forgot to ask you in 
the excitement, but wasn’t there something that 
came up last night about Kerry’s being ineligible 
simply because he had consorted with a profes- 
sional team ?” 

Meriwether shook his head. 

“There never was anything written down in 
the rules on that point. It was a case for special 
decision. Our faculty committee passed on it 
last Wednesday and voted Tom eligible. This 
morning letters came from Shelburne and Baliol 
approving of our action. Baliol could have done 
nothing less — ^you remember their second-base- 
man, Alcott, two years ago?” 

Ogden slapped the coach on the shoulder. 

“Good enough!” He was about to say more 
275 


The Fullback 


V 


when an emissary of the referee came to announce 
that the time had come to repair to the field. 
Meriwether sprang upon a bench as the team 
arose and wrapped themselves in their blankets. 

‘‘Men of Haledon,” he cried, “I have gone over 
the first half with you. You know what your mis- 
takes were. You know where you failed. We are 
ten points to the bad — but ten points are nothing 
to real Haledon men, men who represent the best 
that Haledon turns out. You’re going to overcome 
that lead and pass it, understand — pass it ! And 
Shelburne is not going to score. You have shown 
they can’t pierce your line consistently. They 
got their touch-down by their end, Hamilton, 
having a clear field when he should have been 
covered by you, Anderson. You were asleep. 
And that muffed punt of Maher’s put them near 
enough for a field-goal. No man is going to be 
left uncovered again to-day and no one is going 
to drop a punt. Do you all understand ? Now, 
Tom Kerry is going in at full. He’ll do his best, 
but he hasn’t practised for a week. I may take 
him out, but I won’t if he’s the old Kerry. Kerry, 
are you ready.? You men run out. Kerry will 
follow in time for the line-up. Now, then, away 
you go.” 

As the last man dived out the door, Meriwether 
276 


The Second Half 


came over to Tom, who had just pulled on his 
jersey and was buckling his belt. The coach 
waited a moment and then as the player stood 
erect he placed his hand upon Tom’s shoulder. 

‘‘Boy,” he said in a low voice, “Tm older than 
you are, and I’ve seen a lot, so I want you to take 
what I tell you in the right spirit. Will you ?” 

Tom, looking at the man strangely, slowly 
nodded. 

“I’ll take anything from you, Mr. Meriwether.” 

“All right. I want to say this to you, Tom: 
You’re not a good Haledon man; you’ve never 
been from the start. With you it has been your- 
self first and last and the university nowhere. 
You were fine so long as things went smoothly, 
but as soon as trouble came you crumpled. You 
didn’t live it out like a man. You had a talk 
with Wiley. Oh, I know, Tom; I heard it this 
morning. And you came back not out of love for 
Haledon, but because you found out you could 
•^lay football ” 

“No, coach!” cried Tom, his face white. “I 
couldn’t stand it in New York. I wanted to get 
somewhere near Haledon, not to play, but just 
to feel I was near on this day. I — I ” 

Meriwether was still frowning. 

“Well, you weren’t here, anjrway, until after the 
277 


The Fullback 


first half. And we are ten points to the bad; I 
don’t think we would have been if you had been 
here, because I’d built my game pretty much 
around you. But, anyway, there are the facts. 
You owe Haledon those ten points. And — ^Tom 
Kerry you pay back that debt. Do you under- 
stand ? Pay it back ! You can. I have faith in 
you. Show every one to-day that you’re a Hale- 
don man. Show that, Tom; it’s all I ask, win or 
lose.” 

Meriwether’s words, solemnly uttered, had 
struck Tom’s sensitive soul like lead-tipped 
thongs. He was quivering as a thoroughbred 
horse quivers when he stands at the post. His 
eyes were flashing. He didn’t reply directly. He 
just held his head erect and spoke jerkily. 

‘^A Haledon man !” That was all he said. He 
started for the door and as he went out, his shoul- 
der tingled from the blow of Meriwether’s big palm. 

As he emerged from the narrow tunnel into the 
arena he stopped suddenly and blinked at the 
tremendous spectacle which surrounded him on 
all sides. He could see the rearing masses of 
spectators, caught glimpses of the cheer leaders 
in their white shirts gyrating up and down in 
front of the stands. On either side two bands 
were blaring and vocal choruses were clashing. 
278 


The Second Half 


It was Shelburne’s kick-off and the Haledon 
players were disposing themselves to receive the 
ball. What wind there was favored the kicking 
eleven. Ogden, standing at the thirty-five-yard 
line, faced Tom impatiently. 

‘‘Hurry, Kerry!” 

As Tom ran along the side-line and then out 
to his place on his own goal-line a rustle went the 
length of the graduate players seated on the side- 
line benches. 

“Why, that’s Kerry! Tom Kerry!” 

“Sure; I heard he was to go on this half,” said 
another. “Ogden told me when he came on the 
field just now.” 

From the side-lines the report spread like wild 
fire, aided by the cheer leaders who, stepping to 
their places, waved their megaphones, crying: 

“A long cheer for Kerry. Ar-r-re you r-re-eady 
— hip, hip ” 

As the cheer rattled forth the spectators, 
catching the name, took up the cry. To the 
Haledon adherents, ten points behind, it seemed 
as though Kerry, of whom they had heard so much, 
was the one man of the hour. The reporters in 
the press-stands leaned down and dashed off the 
news, to be telegraphed immediately to news- 
paper offices in various centres. 

279 


The Fullback 


‘‘Kerry in at fullback in place of Maher!” 

Tom, rubbing his hands together, heard noth- 
ing of all this. The stands had disappeared from 
his vision; the cries fell on deaf ears. His con- 
sciousness included merely that yellow oval high 
upon its mound of clay; the knickerbockered 
referee, whistle in hand, standing poised. 

“Are you ready. Captain Clay ? Are you 
ready. Captain Ogden?” Both replied with lit- 
tle waves of their hands. The whistle rose to the 
referee’s mouth. 

Tom moistened his lips. He knew from past 
experience that the moment the ball was in the 
air his nervousness would vanish. At least, he 
hoped it would. It always had. But all his 
other contests had been child’s play to this. This 
was Haledon against Shelburne. This was a big 
game. And his team was ten points behind. 

The shrill whistle of the referee sounded, a 
great quiet settled down upon the stand. A 
Shelburne player advanced slowly to the ball, then 
he quickened into a run. There came the familiar 
dull thud. The ball was in the air. Tom, now 
transformed into a creature of steel, absolutely 
without nerves, watched the driving object. It 
was coming toward him at a height of about 
twenty-five feet, a hurtling drive. It was going to 
280 


The Second Half 

clear the goal-line. Yes, there was no doubt 
about that. 

“Shall I let it go over? Then we can take it 
out to the twenty-yard line and play it from 
there.’’ Swiftly the question passed through his 
mind. Ordinarily there would have been no ques- 
tion. He would merely have let the ball go. But 
Tom was at high tension. His entire being craved 
action. It seemed as though he could not endure 
the delay of letting the ball go out of bounds be- 
hind the goal. He glanced up the field; his team- 
mates were in full career, picking off the charging 
tacklers. His resolution was formed. He turned 
and ran back of the goal, describing a semicircle 
that would carry him within reach of the flying 
ball. On it came. He judged it as he would a 
baseball, and in baseball fashion he caught it — on 
the dead run, over his left shoulder. 

But he didn’t stop. As the spectators with 
a gasp arose to their feet, Tom kept on with his 
circling run, which took him out from the goal 
toward the left side of the field. He had gone 
ten feet from his goal when a Shelburne man 
dived for him. But Tom drew his hips away and 
the tackier went to earth, his fingers scraping 
along Tom’s knee. Then there were five yards of 
cleared space. Tom began to catch that wonder- 
281 


The Fullback 


ful undulating stride, and he sprang up the side- 
lines with the velocity of a runaway horse. A 
Shelburne back met him and made the mistake 
of trying to tackle him head on — a vast mistake. 
One of Tom’s piston-like knees struck him in 
the head and he fell to the crinkling turf, inert. 

‘‘Come on, Tom !” Anderson launched himself 
at the shins of another Shelburne man, carrying 
the player completely off his feet, and putting him 
out of the play. 

Two Shelburne players were headed for him at 
the twenty-five-yard line. Tom distanced them 
by sheer sprinting. The thirty and the thirty-five- 
yard lines vanished beneath his feet. Instinctively 
he saw that he was running into a mass of players, 
opponents and comrades alike. He veered sharply 
to the right and struck another “air-pocket.” 
This carried him five yards. By a change of pace 
he eluded Shelburne’s fleetest runner. There was 
an impression in his ears of a dim sort of roaring. 
He had passed mid-field. Was he going to make a 
touch-down ? Could anything stop him ? These 
thoughts, like ghosts, swept across the runner’s 
mind. Oh, if he could only make a touch-down ! 
But it was not to be. 

There came a sudden shock. A great thought 
filled his mind: “Hold the ball !” He felt a weight 
282 


The Second Half 


upon his back. There was an ache in his side. 
Then came a slap on his shoulder. The shock- 
headed quarterback was leaning over him. 

“Great stuff, Tommy. A peach 

Tom had been tackled upon Shelburne’s thirty- 
five-yard line. The Haledon stands were arock. 
Every one was shouting or waving a flag. All but 
two persons, one a beautiful girl, the other a little 
man with blue eyes. The girl’s lips were moving. 

“Tom. I knew!” 

And the man, turning to a woman next to him, 
spoke to her with that freemasonry of speech 
which so quickly is arranged in the stands at a 
big game. 

“That’s my boy — my boy, Tom.” 

There was some delay, while the man who had 
tried to tackle Tom was being sponged and brought 
to his senses. Tom glanced toward the prone 
figure and was about to move over toward him 
when Ogden caught him by the arm. 

“No, Tom. Keep your sympathy until later. 
We’re going to beat those fellows if we lay them 
all up — by hard, fair playing, I mean. Boys, 
come here.” The team grouped in a knot about 
him, their hands upon one another’s shoulders. 
“Boys, Tom has paved the way. We’re going 
Shelburne’s goal-line. Understand Over 
283 


over 


The Fullback 


the goal-line. They can’t stop us. They can’t!” 
Ogden’s eyes were lighted with a fanatic glare. 
“A touch-down, understand.?” He faced the 
quarter. “No field-goal, Hammie. No field-goal. 
We want a touch-down.” 

“Sure, a touch-down.” The faces of the men 
were grim. 

“All right.” Ogden slapped the nearest man 
on the shoulder and ran to his place as the in- 
jured man, walking limply, was assisted from the 
field and a substitute ran up to the referee to 
report. 

“Osgood’s out of the Shelburne line-up,” cried 
the quarter. “He was their best back. Now, 
come on.” He slapped his hands together as 
the two teams crouched into their places, and 
then rattled out a signal for a crisscross play off* 
tackle. 

Tom, who was at one corner of a square back- 
field, lowered his head. 

“I’ve got to jump between right tackle and end 
and cut down Gray in the Shelburne backfield.” 

As he crouched tensely he heard Ogden’s sharp 
voice. The captain did not approve of the quar- 
ter’s choice of play and he had uttered a code 
word which meant that the play must be changed. 

“New signal.” Allen’s bark was strident. 

284 


The Second Half 


‘"3 — 32 — 23 — ” There was a short pause and 
then came the signal to snap the ball. 

As Tom came in at an angle, Allen, swinging 
around, thrust the ball toward Tom, who made as 
though to receive it, doubling up and bending his 
course toward the left tackle. Several of his team- 
mates were in front and behind him, and the 
Shelburne defense veered to the support of the 
threatened point. But the ball was really passed 
to Haledon’s left end, who swept around back 
of the line from his position, took the ball, and 
dived outside the right-tackle position. But 
Emmons, Shelburne’s great right tackle, had re- 
fused to be drawn from his position by Tom’s fake 
thrust to the left. As a great tackle should, he 
had waited, instinctively divining that deceit was 
in the air. He had held Ogden, his opponent, 
off with rigid straight arms and met the end fair 
at the line as he attempted to come through. 
No gain. 

The Shelburne team lined up with cheerful 
words, slapping one another on the back. 

‘‘My fault, Anderson,” said Ogden. “I didn’t 
have a hole for you. Never mind.” 

The referee placed the ball on the chalk-line, 
glanced toward the linesmen, and then stepped 
back of the attacking eleven. 

285 


The Fullback 


‘‘Second down, ten yards to gam.” 

Allen called another signal and then stepped 
aside as the centre sent the ball on a direct pass 
to Harrison, at one of the halves. It was a straight 
buck on centre, and such was the ferocity of 
Haledoh’s charge that a boulevard was opened 
between right guard and the centre, the backs 
piling through and spilling Shelburne’s secondary 
defense line. But the centre, who wanted the 
ball to go fast to the back, spiralled it instead of 
tossing it end over end. The ball slammed into 
Harrison’s chest with unexpected force, and before 
he could grasp it, the oval had bounded away. 
Allen was on it like a cat, with players of both 
teams piling on top of him. 

The referee pried the mass of men apart and 
found Haledon’s quarter at the bottom, hugging 
the ball. Five yards had been lost. 

“Third down, fifteen yards to gain.” 

The Shelburne stands were in uproar. Hale- 
don’s line attack was not only being held, but 
forced backward. 

As the first numerals of Allen’s signal sounded, 
Tom fell back and the other backs aligned them- 
selves in kick formation. 

“It isn’t a kick,” yelled the Shelburne quarter, 
“look out for a forward pass.” 

286 


The Second Half 


It was, indeed, to be a forward pass. Tom re- 
ceived the ball direct and ran to the right, his 
eye strained to pick out a man eligible to receive 
it. Anderson ! But Anderson was covered. King, 
the other end ! He was not clear, either. Far to 
the right, Sloane, of the backfield, was sprinting 
but the opposing quarter was close in upon him. 

“Every one covered!” Tom tucked the ball 
under his arm and ran with it himself, eluding two 
men who had come through to block the throw. 
Turning in sharply as only he could, he crossed 
the line outside of Shelburne’s left tackle and 
darted onward to the opposing team’s thirty-yard 
mark, where he was thrown by Emmons. 

“Fourth down, five yards to go.” The referee’s 
sharp voice rose above the Haledon cheers. 

“It’s got to be a field-goal, captain,” whispered 
Allen, as the team reassembled. The captain 
nodded and settled into his position. 

Sloane, who had proved himself better than 
Tom at drop-kicking, stepped back into position. 
The quarter crouched near him on the left-foot 
side, while Tom and Harrison protected Sloane’s 
kicking side. There was no attempt at deceit. 
Every one knew what was coming. 

“Hold your man. Hold hard!” The cries of 
the Haledon team crackled down the line. 

287 


The Fullback 


‘'Every man throw on that ball. Block it.” 

From the Shelburne stands came the chant: 

“Block that kick! Block that kick!” 

Then, on the signal, the ball came tumbling 
into the kicker’s outstretched hands in perfect 
position. The line held like a rock, and Sloane, 
dropping the ball, caught it with his toe as it 
struck the ground. It rose just above the out- 
stretched fingers of a Shelburne guard and shot 
straight for the goal-posts. It struck the cross- 
bar and for an instant, while every one held his 
breath, the pigskin wavered and then fell across 
the proper side. 

“Three points of their lead gone.” Ogden ran 
among his men, bestowing vigorous slaps upon their 
reeking backs. “Now, we want seven at least.” 

The effect of the score, small though it was, 
served as an inspiring tonic to the Haledon eleven, 
while the grim faces of the men of Shelburne 
showed that the score had but added to their 
determination. 

Shelburne kicked off, and Allen caught the balk 
on his five-yard line. He was caught by a Shel- 
burne end on his ten-yard mark and there brought 
to earth. Here strategy indicated nothing but a 
punt, and Tom, standing on the goal-line with a 
slight wind at his back, sent a sixty-yard punt, 
288 


The Second Half 


soaring out of bounds, so that there was no possi- 
bility of its being returned. Shelburne thus lined 
up on her forty-yard line. 

Haledon turned back a line thrust, and a forward 
pass was grounded. Then Shelburne kicked on 
the third down, not a very worthy effort, since the 
ball carried too high and settled into Allen’s arms 
on Haledon’s twenty-five-yard line. This rep- 
resented a clear gain of fifteen yards on the ex- 
change of kicks. Haledon’s course was plainly 
indicated. Tom was called back to punt on the 
first down, the Shelburne team being prepared 
for a forward pass, which they might have known 
Haledon would never make inside her forty-yard 
line. Tom, standing only ten yards back on his 
twenty-five-yard mark, sent a hard drive to the 
corner of Shelburne’s twenty-yard line, a fifty- 
five-yard punt, so beautifully placed that it 
bounded in touch as it struck the chalk-mark. 

Shelburne punted on the second down, the ball 
going fifty yards to Haledon’s forty-yard mark, 
Tom catching and bringing it back to mid-field. 
Students of the game could see, if the average 
spectator could not, what Tom’s punting was 
doing — it was setting Shelburne constantly back 
as a result of losses sustained in the exchange of 
punts. 


289 


The Fullback 


Now Haledon was in position to unlimber a 
long gain attack. For the first time Tom was called 
upon to make his quick turns olF tackle. The 
team relied upon Tom and faced the rival line with 
buoyant confidence. 

Kerry stood in kick formation, his hands held 
in front of him to receive the direct pass. As the 
ball shot into his hands he tucked it under his 
arms and launched himself to the right. The 
opposing tackle was handsomely boxed and the 
end had been drawn outward, while Harrison, 
Allen, and Sloane were doing lethal work with 
Shelburne’s backfield defense. Coming up to the 
line, Tom turned in at sharp right angle and was 
clear in Shelburne’s domain. 

‘‘Come on. Tommy.” King, coming across 
behind the line of scrimmage, launched himself 
at a Shelburne tackler’s knees, sending him flat. 

“All right, Kerry.” Anderson, running in 
front of Tom, bowled over Emmons. Tom’s 
quick eye saw an open lane to the right, and, 
leaving Anderson, he dashed off alone. This gave 
him ten more yards, and he reached Shelburne’s 
fifteen-yard line before he was brought down. 

It had been a superb dash, and had Tom been 
able to pass Shelburne’s fiery little quarter he 
would have had a touch-down. As it was, the gain 
290 


The Second Half 

was sufficient to set the Haledon rooters wild with 
joy. 

‘‘Now, fellows, a touch-down!” Ogden ran up 
and down, repeating his cry and hitting every 
linesman upon the back. “A touch-down, do you 
hear 1 They can’t stop us.” 

“Watch Kerry.” The calls of the Shelburne 
players would have sent a thrill through Tom had 
his mind not been otherwise occupied. The great 
Shelburne team, undefeated for three years, call- 
ing upon one another to watch a man who was 
playing his first big game was a triumph in- 
deed. 

Tom, poised on his toes, every muscle flexed 
and calling for action, watched the quarter as 
with a final glance he jerked out the signal and 
crouched close behind the centre. As the ball was 
snapped he darted along the line toward the right 
extremity. Sloane took the leather and ran a 
few steps to the left, the interference going with 
him. Then, stopping suddenly in his tracks, he 
made a lateral pass to Tom. But Shelburne’s 
left end had not been caught napping. He dodged 
Haledon’s right tackle, while the Shelburne left 
tackle put Harrison out of the way. The end 
dived for Tom’s waist, but the runner eluded him, 
at least eluded a direct tackle. He caught Tom 
2 ^ 


The Fullback 


by one leg, and was dragged five yards before he 
checked the runner’s moment. 

With Tom thus showing his ability to gain, he 
had every idea that the opportunity would be 
given him to cross the remaining ten yards of 
turf that lay between him and the rival goal-line. 
And Shelburne had this idea, too, but it was not 
to be. Allen saw the situation and hesitated. 
Then he decided to let Tom try again. But Shel- 
burne, now desperate, all but two men playing on 
the line, broke through before the play was well 
under way, and Tom was tackled in his tracks. 

‘^ril do it next time, Allen,” muttered Tom. 

‘‘Sure, you will,” grinned Allen. 

But he fooled the Shelburne players by taking 
the ball himself on a quarterback run, straight 
through the centre, the first time he had carried 
the ball. The rival players, not suspecting, con- 
centrating their attention upon Tom, whom they 
believed was either to run or throw a forward 
pass over the goal-line, were easily split apart, and 
before they really knew what had happened Allen 
lay across their goal-line, hugging the ball. 

Amidst the wildest uproar Tom kicked an easy 
goal, adding a point to the six earned through the 
touch-down. And the score was tied. 

“Now we’re on our way!” exulted Ogden. 
292 


The Second Half 

‘‘WeVe got our ten points back. Great work, 
Tom!’’ 

‘‘It’s our game, Jerry.” Tom was smiling now. 
“You wait.” 

Tom for the first time was feeling the team 
spirit in all that the term implies. Members of 
the eleven with whom there had been a certain 
aloofness were slapping him on the back and call- 
ing him “Tommy.” He was responding in kind, 
employing nicknames, which he had heard so 
often, but had never himself used. He loved 
every man. Ogden, the captain, with his torn jer- 
sey and his face streaked with blood from the cut 
which had been patched up in the dressing-room, 
now reopened, his wonderful chest and shoulders 
and stalwart six feet of bone and muscle — he 
would have followed Jerry Ogden to the gates of 
death. And the stocky Harrison, his jet-black 
hair streaming, as he took off his head-guard and 
grinned at Tom! Funny he had taken so long 
to be fond of that indomitable fighter. Tom 
shook his head at him. 

“All right. Doggie — they’re going fast.” 

What a team they were! Ten points to the 
bad at the end of the first half and now on even 
terms at the end of the third quarter ! That was 
spirit and gameness ! Tom’s flesh crept with the 

293 


The Fullback 


thrill of it, and not only Tom but every man felt 
that impression of mental and physical unity. 
There may have been notes of individualism in 
the team until now — Meriwether had often com- 
plained of it. But that had passed. The Hale- 
don eleven was a machine now, highly geared, 
interlocking in all its parts. 

The quarter ended after the kick-olF and. the 
teams changed goals after a minute’s respite. Tom 
punted on the second down, but Shelburne, who 
had received warning from her coaches, did not 
intend to lose any more ground on a kicking duel 
if she could help it. But, unable to clear the end, 
or gain through the line, a punt had to come. 
Tom caught the ball on his twenty-yard line and 
ran it back ten yards. He was sent twice at the 
same end, but the two tries netted only three 
yards. Then he punted fifty yards and Ander- 
son and King downed the catcher in his tracks. 

Shelburne found a weak spot on the right side 
of Haledon’s line, and began to drive Stanwood, 
her heavy plunging back, through for short gains. 
He never got through the second line, but in 
breaking through and coming up to them he was 
gaining about two and a half yards on every 
plunge, and this meant first downs unless the ad- 
vance could be checked. But it seemed as though 
294 


The Second Half 


it could not be. Starting from their twenty-yard 
line, they took the ball in successive first downs 
to the middle of the field, employing in the process 
a shift formation which left only a guard upon one 
side of the line or the other. So quickly were the 
shifts being made that the ball was being put in 
play while the Haledon linesmen were moving 
laterally to meet the changed line-up; the sheer, 
bull-like force of Stanwood's rushes and the heavy, 
quick charge of the offense were doing the rest. 

At the centre of the field Stanwood took the 
ball and started forward for another rush, but 
passed it to Shelburne’s fleetest back, who took it 
and started in the opposite direction. It was a 
simple crisscross play, but the defense was com- 
pletely fooled, and in a flash Wilson was through 
the line and into the open, with no one but Allen 
and Tom to intercept him. Both ran the man out 
of bounds on Haledon’s twenty-five-yard line. 

The steady march down the field had electrified 
the Shelburne throng who were shattering the 
echoes with their cries. The time was getting 
short, and while Haledon had by no means dis- 
integrated, she had none the less been driven 
doggedly back by the terrific thrusts. 

It was here, with the goal-post in sight, that 
Haledon welded. The linesmen had learned prop- 
29S 


The Fullback 


erly to time their sidewise movement so that they 
would receive the attack well settled upon their 
feet. Twice Stanwood was hurled backward, and 
Ogden’s clarion voice began once more to rise in 
notes of triumph. It was perhaps too late to 
think of winning, but at least Shelburne, which 
had already defeated Baliol, could be tied. 

It was the third down. The Shelburne captain, 
hurrying to his place, spoke to the quarter, who 
nodded. The captain turned to the side-lines and 
called a name. 

“Beecher.” Haledon knew that Beecher was a 
magic drop-kicker — a man, however, who had no 
ability to run with the ball or to defend against 
attack. It was his one specialty. He had turned 
his ability to account last year when his toe 
alone had sent Haledon down to defeat. Was his- 
tory to repeat itself.? This question went the 
rounds of the enclosure. 

Clay, the Shelburne captain, glanced toward 
the field judge. 

“How much more time.?” 

“Three minutes,” came the reply. 

“All right. Get in there, Beecher. Now, 
fellows, block your men.” 

Haledon’s players settled into their positions, 
calling upon one another to break through. 

296 


The Second Half 

Tom, standing on the goal-line quivering, studied 
Beecher. The kicker’s face was drawn up into a 
terrible scowl, and he was tossing a handful of 
grass in the air, to catch the direction of the wind. 

‘‘He’s acting!” It was as though some voice 
had whispered the sentence into Tom’s ear. 
“He’s overdoing his part. He doesn’t act as 
though he were to be called upon to kick the ball. 
No man about to make a careful, scientific drop- 
kick would cut up like a clown. Well, what.?” 

Tom crouched forward, his eyes wandering 
from side to side. Shelburne’s protective forma- 
tion — there was something queer about it. The 
men were not facing straight, they were at angles. 
And they were on their toes. And that end there — 
he was playing too wide I 

Suddenly, as the ball was snapped, Tom turned 
and ran, not toward the play but toward the goal- 
line. There came a series of shouts as the ball 
went not into Beecher’s outstretched arms but 
into the hands of the protective back at his left. 
This man dashed to the right, then straightened 
up. Tom saw a tall end racing for the goal-line. 
Toward him he ran, but not with all his might, 
because he did not wish to cover him too soon 
and thus prevent the throw. The man with the 
ball gave his warning shout and launched the ball 
297 


The Fullback 


into the air. The Shelburne end was behind the 
goal, but as the ovoid whizzed toward him Tom, 
running along the goal-line, intercepted it. 

It was a clean catch and his momentum as 
his hands closed upon the ball was terrific. All 
the pent-up energy in his system was unleashed. 
His running catch had carried him well to the 
side and his senses, now wonderfully acute, en- 
compassed the field and it lay on his mind like a 
map, with the position of every man plotted. 
His own men were bowling players over with nice 
precision; they were like creatures seen in a 
dream. He himself felt that never in his life had 
he possessed such power of volition. Even in the 
stands the impression of his unrestrained momen- 
tum was clearly caught. There drifted toward him 
the shadow of a player. He did not know how he 
avoided the tackier; he just did, that’s all. An- 
other came at him from the side, and Tom, 
thrusting out a steel ramrod arm, jammed it into 
the man’s face. 

Followed impressions of narrow escapes, of 
fingers clutching futilely at his shoulders, waist, 
and legs; once there was a violent contact, but 
he found himself plunging clear. And all the 
while the ringing voice of Jerry Ogden: ‘^All 
right, Tommy; all right. This way!” 

298 


The Second Half 


Now, ahead of him the umpire was running, 
trying to get out of Tom’s way. He had heard of 
collisions between open-field runners and officials. 

‘‘Throw yourself on the ground,” Tom heard 
his voice calling sharply to the official. “Til 
jump over you.” And he saw the man obediently 
fall to the turf. 

A great clearing opened before him. He sprang 
forward with renewed impulse. A vague shadow 
rose above his head and he flung himself to the 
ground. 

The air was misty. He heard a vast bourdon, 
like the murmur of a departing storm. He felt 
blows upon his back. He heard his name. He 
glanced up at his captain — and smiled. 

“It’s all Haledon now, Jerry.” 

And the captain smiled with understanding. 

“I know. Tommy,” he said. 

The game ended with the kicking of the goal 
and the field swarmed with riotous grad and 
undergrad who, with a band plunging ahead of 
them, gyrated around the field in a snake-dance of 
interminable involutions. 

There was a rush in Tom’s direction and he and 
Jerry Ogden were borne on high, struggling to 
break from their prominent positions. 

Finally, panting, the excited partisans per- 
299 


The Fullback 


mitted the two men to struggle to the ground. 
Meriwether came running across the gridiron, 
calling to the two players as they turned toward 
the players’ exit. 

‘‘Tom, one minute. Oh, Jerry!” 

The players paused and the coach, placing a 
hand upon the captain’s shoulder and seizing 
Tom with the other, looked Kerry straight in the 
eyes. 

“Tom, I don’t have to say what I think. You 
know it all.” 

As the boy averted his face the coach went on: 

“But I didn’t come to say what I’ve said. I 
want you to come to the side-line a moment. 
There’s somebody there.” 

Tom turned and accompanied the coach to a 
point where the trainer was superintending the 
collection of buckets, sponges, and football para- 
phernalia, 

“What I ” 

A cry from Tom interrupted the coach. 

“Father!” He rushed upon the little man 
like a whirlwind, crushing the breath almost out 
of him with the fervor of his hug. “Father!” 
He released his arms and stepped backward, 
gazing at the man as though unable to believe his 
eyes. 


300 


The Second Half 


‘‘It’s father all right, Tom.” Timothy Kerry’s 
eyes were moist. “And, Tom, what a boy you 
are!” 

“This is the best ever.” Tom was beaming 
upon his father, forgetting his aches and pains, 
his fatigue. “And you’ll stay over for the Ba- 
liol game. Shelburne beat them easily — they’re 
poor this year. What a time you’ll have!” 

In a lower tier of a stand, almost emptied of its 
crowd, Tom caught the flash of a familiar dress. 
Hal Middleton, who had injured his ankle in the 
first half, had been talking to Louise, and was now 
hobbling across the field. 

“Louise is waiting for you. Tommy, old chap,” 
grinned Hal as he passed Tom and the little group 
around him. “Hello, Mr. Kerry — great, wasn’t 
it.” He clasped his hands and shook them, smil- 
ing broadly, but continuing on his way. 

“You go on over to the field-house with Hal, 
father,” said Tom, “and I’ll join you in a min- 
ute.” 

As the man nodded, Tom ran over to the wall 
separating the stand from the field. Louise Mid- 
dleton was leaning over, smiling. 

“Tom ! You were wonderful ! Superb ! And 
Haledon won ! Think of it ! After three years — 
and you did it.” 


301 


The Fullback 


‘Xouise, I tried to help,” Tom said. “But 
you’re the one who really won the game.” 

Tom flushed and paused. 

“Tm going to say it to you, Louise, because I 
feel it too strongly to keep it to myself: I knew 
you were watching me. You don’t know how that 
helped.” 

They looked at each other, both knowing that 
no words they could say would be more significant 
than what their eyes revealed. 

“I’ve always been watching you, Tom— since 
I was a girl.” 

“And— and ” 

“And I always shall, Tom Kerry; for you will 
go on — ^you are that kind. And some day there 
will be bigger things than football games.” 

Tom’s lip opened to say something, but he could 
not speak. But Louise, smiling and blushing, 
knew the unspoken thought. 


302 











